


Glukupikron

by Leoithne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War I, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Soldier!John, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2538368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leoithne/pseuds/Leoithne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Glukupikron: adjective and oxymoron. </em>
  <br/><em>Ancient Greek, meaning sweetbitter. </em>
  <br/><em>From Fragment 130 V by Sappho. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Eros deute m'ho lusimeles donei</em>
  <br/><em>glukupikron amachanon orpeton"</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Eros, loosener of limbs, once again trembles me,</em>
  <br/><em>sweetbitter, sly, uncontrollable creature... ” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>August 1914. John Watson is a soldier of the 2nd Battalion of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers stationed in the city of Sabathu, India. As war starts to rage in Europe, he is forced to return to England and to join the fight against the Empires in France. Wounded in battle, he is sent back to England to recover from the injury. He thus arrives to the private hospital held in their mansion by the Holmes family. There he meets their youngest – and aloof – son Sherlock Holmes. </p>
<p>In a ten years' span time with the history of Europe as background, we follow their constant search for each other, through loss, fear, delusion, but mainly love. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “Love shook my heart, </em>
  <br/><em>Like the wind on the mountain</em>
  <br/><em>rushing over the oak trees.”</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1914: So It Begins.

**Author's Note:**

> This story started as a rough idea some time ago - to be honest, it was three months ago - when, while spending my holidays in the lovely Aosta Valley in Italy, it popped up in my head. So far the initial idea has widened to the point I can barely keep it under control, so much that I cannot still see the end of it in the near future.
> 
> For this specific reason I wanted to warn you that, despite all my efforts to keep it simple and short, it is becoming long and hard to write, inasmuch as I cannot guarantee a fast update (some chapters are taking literally weeks to be written). What I can guarantee, instead, is a huge amount of details and, hopefully, a compelling story. Nevertheless, I promise I'll try to do my best to work on it as much and as fast as I can.
> 
> Thank you, readers, for your your understanding and patience.
> 
> Primarily, thanks to my wonderful beta reader [JuJuBee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcy09/pseuds/JuJuBee) because she is doing a terrific work with my mess and I can never thank her enough for coping with it. You have a golden heart and the patience of a saint!
> 
> Also thanks to [IdaC91](http://archiveofourown.org/users/IdaC91/pseuds/IdaC91) for all her lovely support while writing this. Because she listens to me in the middle of the night whenever I come up with a new idea and always thinks that my work is worth of publishing!

_Sabathu, India, 23rd August 1914_

_It’s hot. It’s hot and humid._

_The rain has just stopped falling and everything is damp._

_Nothing has happened in these last days here, but some news has arrived from Europe. War is spreading and we are waiting for orders. Today I will speak to Roberts, the captain of our company, who seems to be informed about our destination._

_Needless to say, my men are worried. Here in this inland region of India the time passes slowly and there are few things that keep us occupied, the biggest of which has been a hotbed of revolution two months ago. But nothing more._

_Yet we are probably going to be sent to war in Europe and, despite the training, I know that not one of my men is ready for the battlefield. And neither am I._

John stopped writing his journal to sweep away the sweat from his forehead. The air, despite the rain – or, maybe, thanks to it – was incredibly hot. The place had suffered from a week of constant rain without a single day of sunshine, which had made the temperature drop a little, but it also made it akin to a bowl full of hot water. And luckily, the summer was coming to an end. The sun had dried the puddles and mist hovered in the air, making the clothes so damp that they seemed glued to John’s slightly tanned skin. Before India, before Himachal Pradesh, John had never thought he would have missed the English climate. Yet he did. And, if the rumours were correct, they were about to be sent back to their homeland. Only it would not be for a pleasure cruise. It would be for war.

A war which John Watson, lieutenant of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, had no idea about. All that he knew from the High Command stationed in India was that on 28th July aSerbian nationalist named Gavrilo Princip had shot and killed Austrian archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie, who were visiting Sarajevo, leading to an international crisis and subsequently to the invasion of the aforementioned Serbia by Austria-Hungary. Russia was against this invasion, since Serbia had been one of their long term protégés.

After this, John had quite lost the point of everything. He was just too terribly shocked by the news to pay close attention to details. Something in his guts was telling him this mission was not going to be a bed of roses. He deeply wished to be wrong. He rubbed his palms together and noticed a man walking towards the table where he was sitting at.

“Good evening, lieutenant.”

“Mike…”, smiled John, eyes half close to recognise his corporal.

“Still waiting, uh?”

“Yes.”

“When does the meeting start?”

“I don’t know. They said they would send someone to call me.”, John wearily answered, he had been waiting for an hour and a half and there was still no sign of heralds “But you know how the High Command here is. Celerity isn’t its main quality. Indecision. That is its quality.”

He stopped for a second and called the waiter of the café.

“Take a sit, Mike. I’d like some company, if you aren’t busy.”

Mike sat down.

“Busy? I nearly forgot what ‘busy’ means down here.”

He took out a fags’ box from his pocket and offered one to John. John shook his head.

“No, thanks.”

As the waiter arrived, John ordered two beers.

“They can’t do the beer right.”, remarked Mike “It tastes like shit.”

“Better than their attempts at whiskey.”, grinned John “But it seems it won’t be long until we are sent back to ‘bilayati’.”

“So you suspect we’re going to war, then?”

“I do. Very much. All the clues we have gathered in these days lead there. At this point, all we’re really missing is the departure date.

“Can’t wait to see England again.”

“Don’t be so eager, corporal! It’s a war after all. Are you that desirous to fight?”

“People say it will be a quick one. I’m not worried. We will win.”

John shrugged his shoulders. His guts still told him a different story. 

The waiter arrived and they sipped their drinks in silence, eyes fixed on the last rays of sun disappearing beyond the horizon. Twilight, in all its purple-blue finery arrived, and the hotness of the day completely transformed into humidity.

Mike Stamford was a good corporal. He and John had been serving together in the second battalion of Northumberland Fusiliers for four years now and they had slowly become good friends, but sometimes John wondered whether he was conscious of being a soldier or not. Because John was overly conscious of that.

There had been a time, lasted two months only, when he had been simply a doctor, just after  university. It had been such a brief time that he almost forgot what being a civilian meant. He had joined the army for…for what? If someone had asked him, he would answer that he had joined because he wanted to be useful, because his medical knowledge would prove worthy, because he felt the need to help his country. But the reality was not even remotely true. The reality was that he didn’t know why he had taken the step. And now he was a lieutenant and a doctor. More the former than the latter. And he was extremely aware of his role. And it scared him to death, because he knew that on the battlefield – and they were going on a battlefield now, he got that – he was the one who had to take the decisions for his platoon. He knewhe wasn’t ready. He couldn’t laugh at war like all his subordinates were doing. As easy as the war could be, he had lives in his hands and he couldn’t allow himself to lose any of them.

Lost in those gloomy thoughts, he barely noticed the herald’s arrival.

“Lieutenant Watson?”, a young private addressed to him.

“Yes.”

“Captain Roberts requires your presence.”

John stood up, waved to Mike and followed the boy down the street, until they reached Roberts’accommodations. Nobody liked Captain Roberts and John didn’t either. He was thirty-something years old, unfit, with a drinking habit that made him irascible and unreliable most of the time. And that evening was no exception. They had wondered why he was still in the army, and had reached the conclusion that he had some kind of high protector. It couldn’t be explained any other possible way.

He grinned a drunken welcome to John.

“Lieutenant Watson.”

“Sir.”

Roberts laughed for no apparent reason. John glanced down, desperately trying to hide the blatant embarrassment in his eyes.

“We are set to leave forEngland in three days.”, he eventually said, apparently struggling to find the right words “The order came from, _hic_ , the King himself.”

He grinned one more time and stayed still with a dumb expression on his face, the redness of alcohol showing on his cheeks.

“We are going back, lieutenant!”, he smiled.

John managed a sly smile.

“I’ll make sure that my platoon is ready for the departure, captain.”

“Good man, Watson. Good man you are.”

_He hasn’t even understood that we’re going back because we’re being sent to war. We’re going to be butchered there._

John saluted and went out. The silhouette of Mike appeared leaned on a wall at the end of the street.

“Gather the others, Mike.”

“We are going back, aren’t we?”

John nodded, doubts haunting him.

 

_Sabathu, India, 24 th August 1914_

_We are being sent back to England as Captain Roberts announced yesterday. Officially the High Command hasn’t released any information about the state of the things in Europe, but the fact that they are calling a whole battalion back home doesn’t give me much hope._

_There are speculations about the fact that Germany has got a bigger offensive power than we had imagined. Or so they say._

_The base here is busy with preparations for the departure. The section I’m responsible for lacked two men (they were transferred two months ago and there was no urgency to get new ones until now) so we were assigned a new one, with the promise that we are going to get our last member as soon as we land in England._

_His name is Alfred Barton and he seems a good soldier. Phil already knew him somehow and he told me that he has proven himself worthy by sedating a rebellion in another region of India some months ago. We will see how he interacts with us, since we are a close-knit platoon and some people say that we don’t like mixing with others._

_That's not completely right, but it isn’t completely wrong either._

_The truth is that I’m the one who is not that much in for comradeship and the notoriety has been bestowed on my men. They don’t care much as long as the other soldiers are ok with it, but there were episodes where they had been discriminated against because they were “those guys from Watson’s platoon” or the “snobs”. This reputation has affected Charlie and Stan mainly, while Mike, Bill and Phil have remarked more than once that they ‘don’t give a shit’ and that ‘the whole army can go fuck itself for believing so’._

_I sincerely hope that this situation won’t cause any problems when we begin to fight side by side;we can’t afford to behave like children in battle, risking a defeat just because people cannot reason or get along for the sake of the mission_ _._

_‘We are going to war’. I still cannot believe it. There are men from other platoons that are humming this stupid tune someone has composed. It is a happy tune. What’s happy about going to war? How can someone find a massacre ‘happy’? For – make no mistake – it is a massacre. No matter how short, how painless, how victorious it might be. People will die and I simply can’t accept that there are people singing happily for the future deaths. I don’t know how many of us will die, I know nothing of what’s going on. But a war it’s a war and it scares the shit out of me me that some soldiers just cannot see – and comprehend – the dire consequences of the situation._

_True, I am the one who decided to join the army, but I know my limits and, from my perspective, a soldier who doesn’t fear death isn’t a good soldier at all._

_Let’s hope I’m wrong. Let’s hope this war will end soon. Let’s hope not one of my men will die. But honestly, I’m afraid I haven’t got enough hope for it not to happen._

_Bombay, India, 9 th September 1914_

_After two weeks across India, we have finally arrived to Bombay from where we are due to sail tomorrow at midnight. The long march has made some of the singers less willing to sing their tunes. Silence has fallen over the battalion like a monster._

_We have encountered horrible weather conditions. A monsoon struck hard when we were crossing the Maharashtra region before arriving at Bombay. We were also not completely prepared to face more hot weather in the southern part of India. It’s uncomfortable when you’re used to lower temperatures. Not that lower, but at least not that hot._

_Some of the men got sick. Phil has caught a cold, nothing serious luckily, but Bill has had a high temperature since yesterday. To his credit he isn’t complaining and he keeps doing his duty like nothing has happened, but I can see the weariness in his eyes. If he could, he would probably fall asleep for three or four days. I just hope his condition doesn’t get any worse. We are far too debilitated from the travel to allow ourselves the luxury of getting properly sick._

_Bombay, India, 10 th September 1914_

_Bill isn’t getting any better. There are still two hours left before the departure and he cannot even keep himself upright at the moment. He’s trying to be strong, but I can see how deeply he is affected by the fever. He hasn’t eaten anything either. I’m starting to wonder if it’s just the fever or if it is something more serious – my head is playing games with me. Could it be Malaria? I’m pleading for it to not be malaria; he won’t survive if that is indeed the case. I’m concerned about him. The sea travel we’re going to embark surely won’t improve his condition. I hope it isn’t malaria. Please, let it not be malaria. Bill is too young to die now._

_Unknown Location, Indian Ocean, 15 th September 1914_

_Five days have passed since we left Bombay. We are navigating westwards to reach the Arabic Peninsula, then the Red Sea proceeding through to the Suez Canal._

_Bill is getting better. Fortunately it was just a high fever caused by the sudden climate change and not malaria as I thought. He felt really bad for four days, but since the day before yesterday he has slowly recovered, inasmuch as his temperature has returned to normal. He’s just very pale and still refuses to eat, even though he recognises he needs to. He has tried to eat some bread today, but vomited soon after. He says that his stomach protests at the mere idea of food and he is unable to keep anything down. I guess we will try one more time tomorrow to get some food into him. He needs to eat._

_The other members of my sections are all alright._

_Mike, as always, is a bit seasick and tries to distract himself with little games nobody wants to play._

_Phil has made a dozen of new friends with his stories of ‘tombeur de femmes’, half of them true, the other half so well invented that they may as well be true._

_Stan and Charlie do little else except playing dices with other platoons. I don’t know how much money they have lost by now, but I do believe I need to have a word or two with them._

_Al Barton – we have discovered that he hates being called ‘Alfred’ – is a nice chap with whom I speak gladly. He comes from Glasgow and lisps a little, but he’s well educated and knows a lot of things about Scottish history._

_As for me: the travel is boring. I hope it won’t last long, even though I know it will. Nevertheless, hope is always the last to die._

_Aden, Arabia, 18 th September 1914_

_One week stop at Aden. I don’t know the reason why and neither does our Captain (not that he knows anything important, except the best places where to buy alcohol)._

_The place is terribly hot and a boiling wind lifts the desert sand up. I’m literally soaked in sand. And we have to wait in this place for one week. Still no apparent reason._

“Do you know something about this stop, lieutenant?”, asked the lance corporal of the third section of John’s platoon.

“I’m sorry, George, I know nothing about it. We just have to wait until we are given new information.”

“It’s fucking hot here!”, cried a fair-headed boy; John could never remember the name, J-something.

“I know, private. We’re all feeling it on our skins. Trust me, complaining won’t help.”

The fair-headed soldier shut up immediately at the reproach.

John started to walk around the harbour. The place was lively, even though they were in the middle of nowhere. If he looked towards the inland, he could see only an ocean of sand. But the city and the harbour of Aden were swarming with merchants, goods, soldiers, Arabs, Indians, Africans, British, Germans. It was also a better place than Sabathu and the ship to get news about the war. John craved information. Any information. He wanted to know what they were about to put themselves in. Unfortunately, the information was unreliable at its best, at worst it was complete fantasy.

In the evening, he, Mike and Bill sat in a little restaurant – more a canteen for the Navy, actually, considering their customers – in a quieter zone, if you could call it that, of the city.

“So?”, asked Mike while they waited for their dinner to arrive “Any news, John?”

“You wish.”

“Really? Nothing?”, inquired Bill, finally recovered and with his usual mischievous smile.

“I’ve spoken with the lieutenant of another platoon which arrived here two weeks ago. They are in our same situation; they have received only bits of information. Apparently there was a fierce battle between the Allies, us and France, and Germany some days ago to defend the city of Paris.”

“The Germans reached Paris?”, gulped Bill.

“So they heard. But the news is a bit blurred.”

“That isn’t good news for us, nonetheless.”, added Mike, showing the first signs of discomfort “Everyone spoke about an ‘easy victory’, didn’t they?”

“They did.”, answered John gravely “They certainly did. Who would be mad enough to tell their soldiers they are going to fight an endless war? It would scare them to death, wouldn’t it?”

Mike and Bill nodded, puffing rings of smoke in the torrid evening wind from the desert.

“It’s war.”, concluded John “Nothing good _ever_ comes from war.” He took out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it up, losing himself in the convoluted cinereous clouds of smoke.

“We are going to certain death and no one has realised it yet.”, he said out of the blue after some time.

“Aren’t we a little pessimistic, lieutenant?”, asked a voice from behind.

“I am not being pessimistic.”, snorted John, heavily annoyed “I’m being realistic.”

“I’d like to know your point of view, then.”

The man who had spoken, of whom John know nothing, sat at the table. A captain. He was a captain and John suddenly realised that he had just been a hairbreadth away from insulting his superior ~~.~~

“Sorry, sir.”, he urged to apologise “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“There’s no need to apologise. You were voicing an opinion. I am curious about your point of view, lieutenant…?”

“Watson, sir.”

“I’m Waters, Eric Fletcher Waters, captain of company Z.”

“John Watson. Lieutenant of platoon S, company C. This is corporal Mike Stamford and lance corporal Bill Murray.”

“Well, then, Watson. Realistic? Why? Do you know something I’m not aware of?”

“I highly doubt that, sir. I…just have a strange feeling about all this.”

“Don’t you believe in our HQ?”

“I’d be a bad soldier if I didn’t.”

“But?”

Captain Waters gave John an awkward feeling inside his chest. He wasn’t used to having a competent captain and this one sent shivers down his spine. He had cerulean eyes standing out from his tanned skin. He was young, but older than John and had a lock of flaxen hair contouring his forehead. He had a strong and striking confidence that seemed to tower over John’s own confidence. John felt obliged to answer his questions, as if the man could read his mind.

“But I do believe they are hiding something. Everyone is repeating ad nauseam that this will be a difficult, but short war. It has been repeated so many times that it is only logical for me to have doubts. I’m sorry, but I can’t help it.”

John felt the inquiring gaze of Waters on him, but in the end the man smiled.

“You’re very observant, Watson. You are a great man, and a rather bad soldier for the same reason. No great man has ever been a good soldier. Great men become doctors, not soldiers.”

“I am a doctor.”, replied John calmly. Feeling slightly more brave, he asked “And you, sir, are you a good soldier?”

He didn’t expect Waters to answer, but the man did.

“I consider myself a good man and consequently a rather bad soldier. I obey, though. And I have the impression that you don’t always.”

John gave a quick glance at Mike and Bill, who were following the conversation in complete silence, as if it were a match on which their own life depended. And to John it had started to look like a match. Nevertheless, he liked Waters. A lot.

“I am a soldier, therefore I obey.”, replied John.

“Always?”, the man grinned.

John felt the urge to lower his eyes. That Waters. He knew, somehow, that John had a tendency to be a bit stubborn about some rules. He never openly disobeyed, but now and then he walked on the edge of rules’ boundaries, so very tempted to cross.

“Yes.”, he finally answered “Always.”

“You’d make a good captain.”, Waters replied, leaving John, who had expected a reproach, astonished “And, probably, a good general too. You can lie to yourself so easily that you can fool the others. But always be honest with your closest men.”

And he pointed at Mike and Bill, who were holding their breath.

“Because they’ll be your safety net during this madness. For it is madness, isn’t it?”

He smiled and stood up to walk away. He took two steps, then spoke again.

“And I am _pessimistic_ , lieutenant. There’s something which doesn’t sound right in this.”

John, Mike and Bill looked at each other for a while, almost scared to utter a syllable. It was John who broke the silence.

“I’d trade Roberts for Waters. Any time.”

“Agree, lieutenant.”, answered Bill and Mike simultaneously.

 

_Aden, Arabia, 25 th September 1914_

_The ship is finally ready to sail offshore again._

_No one has the slightest clue about why we had to stop here for a week. I hadn’t much time to write on the journal since I’ve been busy with looking for information about the European war._

_There seems to be unreassuring news. It looks like the German forces are stronger than HQ expected; they’re giving hell to the British and French soldiers in the trenches. It seems that they have weapons which can destroy a company of men with a single shot and it also seems that they own powders that can kill if inhaled. These are mainly rumours, but now my platoon is starting to be scared._

_No one is singing happy war tunes anymore, everyone seems to have fallen into a state of mourning. There is more silence but they know. And if they don’t, they imagine. They know we’re going to be defeated. It’s a long, boring travel to Death on the sea. It would be poetic if it were not so damn real._

 

_Approaching Suez, Egypt, 28 th September 1914_

 

_I hate being on a ship._

_I hate being transported like some kind of animal._

_I hate the lack of privacy._

_I hate the smell._

_I hate the people around me, who are constantly asking useless questions._

_I hate the fact that I don’t exactly know where I am._

_I hate the stink of the Sea permeating the air._

_I hate it._

_Suez, Egypt, 30 th September 1914_

_We’ve just docked at Suez, where we will be idle for two weeks – again for no apparent reason -  and I’m rereading the notes of two days ago._

_I think I would have gone mad if I had stayed one more day on that ship. Everyone is starting to feel it – the war – under his own skin. There are people panicking because we are getting near the conflict and the whole battalion is asking questions that can’t be answered. And now that we are in Suez we are getting less and less reassuring information. There’s a stalemate, yet the massacre continues. There have been many casualties, especially among French and British soldiers, less among Germans. Soldiers here are talking to each other._

_The most recurring conversation is:_

_“Am I going to survive?”_

_(It always starts like that any hour of the day, any hour of the night.)_

_“Of course you are. Look at you! You’re young and strong! It’s me that isn’t going to make it. See? I am old/unfit/too slow when it comes to running/not good at shooting, never been/too tall/too short/too slim/too fat/too blonde/too dark/too poor, etc. to survive!”_

_“You’re a bloody liar! You aren’t like that! But look at me, instead! I am the one who’s too *see the aforementioned* to survive! Don’t worry, you’ll make it!”_

_It makes me anxious. I wish I weren’t, but I can’t help it._

_Besides, what makes me anxious is that I would probably be sent to the RAMC, so that I will not be able to stand beside my men and I won’t have the opportunity to save their lives if they’re injured. I hope I will find a solution. I cannot leave them alone. I cannot. I need to be there, with them. I cannot stand back and watch them arrive dead at the hospital. I don’t want this. I’d save more lives being on the front line. It’d be better for the army. It’d be better for my men. It’d be better for me._

_Suez, Egypt, 4 th October 1914_

_A young boy – he is, maybe, twenty-two or twenty-three – is sobbing at the corner of the street. Another young man is trying to comfort him. I’m going to ask what is happening. I’m rather scared of the possible answer, even thoughit is my duty to understand their needs._

“What is happening here?”, John asked the young man who was not sobbing.

“It's a sair fecht, sir. Mah mukker 'ere misses his lassie.”, the soldier replied.

John was of Scottish ancestors, but he had never heard such a strong accent. He felt at a loss.

“Am sorry?”, he muttered.

“He misses his girlfriend.”, answered another one “He think he prolly never see her again.”

And this one didn’t know a single grammar rule, good. Well, at least he could understand what he was saying, despite the grammar.

“They were s’posed to marry soon. You understand, sir?”

“I do, obviously I do.”

John retreated, leaving the group of young soldiers. He had lied and felt ashamed for that. He couldn’t understand their struggle at all. He didn’t havea family to care for or one to care for him. His mother had died when he was seven and his father had died when he was twenty-three. He had an older brother, Harry, but they hadn’t spoken to each other for six years now and he didn’t even know his whereabouts.

As for girlfriends, he had to admit that he hadn’t really had the time to find one. Firstly there had been the medicine studies, which had taken up all his free time for six years. Then, he had joined the army and had been sent to India three months later. For these specific reasons he had yet to have a real relationship. Sure, he had been with some girls now and then for ‘fun’ but never more than that. The only real romantic relationship he had ever had seemed aeons away. Two years during his college studies. He remembered her sweetly and tried to imagine what he would feel like if he were about to die and knew that he would not see her anymore. Despite his efforts, he failed. So while he could slightly understand that crying fellow, he couldn’t participate in his sorrow. He felt terribly ashamed for that and suddenly realised that no one was going to mourn his death. He was overwhelmed with loneliness. Lieutenant John Watson was alone. Alone and marching towards his death.

 

_Suez, Egypt, 16 th October 1914_     

 

_The High Command has announced that we have to cross Egypt on foot. The main reason appears to be the fact that there are some spies who know our position and are keeping the Germans informed about the movements of our ship. We really didn’t need any more delay and yet here we are, setting our things to travel across this country, to avoid German spies._

_Alexandria, Egypt, 22 nd October 1914 _

 

_I don’t want to see the desert anymore._

_I don’t want to see the sand anymore._

_And I don’t want to hear another complaint._

_Some Egyptians said that we have been lucky to cross the country in this season and not in summer, but I find small comfort in it, knowing where we are headed. Nevertheless, I found myself oddly aware that I miss the Indian climate. I had never thought that something similar would happen. As far as I knew, before this crossing happened, all I wanted was a warmer climate, yet all I want now is some snow._

_Some soldiers are saying that we will have plenty of snow on the battlefield. We will be sent in France, they say. We will be sent to Italy, they say. We will be sent somewhere. Nobody exactly knows our destiny. If I am asked where are we marching to, I just answer that we are marching towards the never-land. I’ve tried to ask Captain Roberts if he was aware of any different orders, but, as always, he was too drunk to care. Drunkenness seems to have become a rather normal state among the battalions. The battlefield is approaching and the fear is slowly creeping inside our bodies, rippling our hearts and making us shiver despite the hotness. Alcohol seems an easy balm._

_The cries, like the ones I have witnessed, have become a common issue and were it not for the fear of being executed by the firing squad, I’m sure that many young boys would have already returned home. And I understand them deeply. Had I had someone to care for, I would do the same._

_I feel somehow lucky that the men in my section – who are my closest friends – haven’t got any deep bonds._

_Mike’s fiancé left him one year ago because she couldn’t cope with his soldier life._

_Bill, well, Bill. For Bill there’s a somewhat longer story. I’d just say that he’s not much interested in relationships, not of the usual kind. He’s a backgammon player after all and nobody seems to mind. He’s funny and clever, and he’s a good soldier, why should we mind?_

_Phil is a mess with women and he’s our Latin lover. He probably has a string of lovers throughout the whole India and the Great Britain. We’re lucky that he hadn’t had the chance to visit Egypt, since we are here on a mission, otherwise he would have become notorious in no time. And, maybe, hanged._

_Charlie and Stan: they are just not much interested in long-lasting relationships, but they do care for their parents. Charlie seems the one deeply affected by this. His mother has been ill for a long time and his father would surely suffer if he loses his second son._

_I don’t know Al enough to have made up my mind about him. He seems a bit aloof and he doesn’t have any photos of possible girlfriends in his pocket._

_I have no one. No one is going to cry over my grave. There will be no flowers on the grass._

_I think it is for the best. They break my heart, those here with families, kids, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters. They are the hopeful and the hopeless ones, and comfort does nothing to prevent them from silently sobbing through the desert air when they think no one can hear them. But I do. I hear them every night and I see them putting on their fake smiles the following day._

_Masks to hide behind. But we all know truth. And we don’t ask anymore ‘what’s wrong?’, because there’s no ‘wrong’ anymore._

_Alexandria, Egypt, 28 th October 1914_

_Our ship is late. There has been some problem we know nothing about. It’s an odyssey. It has never taken me this much time to move from India to Britain._

_Here in Alexandria, war is more than a rumour. There are fresh stories every day, but we don’t know whether they are reliable or not. Sometimes they seem reliable, but some other times they seem utterly stupid._

_Captain Roberts doesn’t know anything and I had to look for Captain Waters to gain some information. He has heard that the war is slowly becoming a trench warfare – and we don’t have the faintest idea of what that actually means – and that there have been far too many casualties for the British Army. There are rumours saying one hundred thousand casualties or more._

_I reported it to my platoon this morning and three men burst into tears. Mike looked at me speechless and Phil’s and Bill’s gazes were lost._

_Waters told me that the word “Alexandria” means ‘defender of men’, let it be a sign of hope for us, please._

_Alexandria, Egypt, 1 st November 1914_

_A cool breeze is blowing from the Mediterranean today. The ship is due to arrive tomorrow, but it will take other five days before we sail. No more news from the so-called Western Front._

_Is no news, good news? I doubt it._

_Gibraltar, United Kingdom, 11 th November 1914_

_England in Spain. Just a quick stop to take some food, then other four days to Plymouth. I had never seen Gibraltar before. I hope I can visit when the war finishes._

_Gibraltar, United Kingdom 13 th November 1914_

_I may have spoken too soon. More problems. We have to wait for another ship to arrive here and then we will sail together. The vessel should bring the Third Battalion of Royal Fusiliers from the city of Lucknow. The HC says they are due to arrive in four days. This is becoming exhausting. Do they really believe we would be able to fight a war if we arrive there already exhausted from all this travelling and waiting?_

_Plymouth, England, 22 nd December 1914_

_I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than today to see the English coast._

_After weeks of travel, we have finally reached our final destination. I thought we would never see the end of this voyage. It took us one bloody month to move from Gibraltar to here. The High Command feared that the Reich could have sent their Navy to the Atlantic Ocean while we were navigating there. They made us stop three times in the middle of nowhere, not allowed – for obvious, not-that-obvious, reasons – to approach the French shores._

_Someone asked if the Germans had reached the Atlantic coast. We received words of reassurance._

_‘That’s just bullshit. They’re stuck on the eastern border of France. There are no Germans here. It’s just precaution. We can’t risk anything.’ That’s what was said during the last days._

_A Welsh soldier summed it up for the whole battalion in a single, colourful expression: ‘Cer i grafu!”_

_And he’s bloody right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _British ranks_ : for those who are not familiar with the British Army (and I wasn’t, therefore it took me a great effort to get it right for it’s so damn complicated): John is a lieutenant and his role as lieutenant is to command a platoon.  
> A platoon is formed by three sections, each of which includes eight men. Every section is commanded by a corporal and, secondarily, by a lance corporal. This means that John is commanding twenty-four men, himself included.  
> His platoon is part of a company (in this case the “company C”) which includes 80-150 men and is under the command of a captain or a major. About 10 companies together (the number may vary) form a battalion.  
> John is part of the 2nd battalion. In Conan Doyle’s canon we don’t know which battalion Doctor Watson is part of. I have arbitrarily decided to put him in the second battalion for a reason, which I can’t explain or I will spoil a bit of the progression of the story.  
> Also, he’s not a captain yet, there’s a reason for that too. In my own idea he’s 30 at the beginning of our story and he had joined the army when he was 24. Six years is how much  
> it usually takes to become lieutenant. He will eventually become a captain, but again: no spoilers.  
>  _As for Captain Roberts_ : it wasn’t really the standard for the British Army to keep incompetent officers, but there were also people who had friends in the High Quarters and thus had a preferential treatment, despite their faults. In my fictional universe he’s one of them.  
>  _Bilayati_ : it’s a Hindi word, derived from Urdu which means ‘foreign’ and, extensively, ‘British’. It’s the word that originated the war slang word “Blighty”, which was used to designate Great Britain among soldiers.  
>  _Captain Eric Fletcher Waters_ : it is my own tribute to Roger Waters’ father.  
> Roger Waters is one of the members of Pink Floyd and his father, namely Eric Fletcher Waters, died in 1944 in the battle of Anzio in Italy, helping to free the country from Nazi-fascism. His company, the company Z of Royal Fusiliers, was asked to hold its position and most of the men died there. This is the historical information.  
> I changed it to fit WWI and to fit the story. For my own needs (and future development) Waters has been made captain of a company of the Northumberland Fusiliers, instead than of the Royal Fusiliers and, obviously, he has been made older than he was.  
> Roger Waters has been given honorary citizenship on 18th February 2014 by the city of Anzio.  
> His tribute to his father’s death is the moving song “When the tigers broke free.”  
> (This is a big spoiler about the later chapters, sorry.)  
>  _RAMC_ : also known as Royal Army Medical Corps. In the Conan Doyle’s canon the RAMC hadn’t been created yet, so I had to play a bit with this. Being John a doctor, he should be sent there, but John is also a soldier and thus he is worried about not being able to save his friends if he is called to the rear. I felt this explanation to be necessary for future development.  
>  _‘ It's a sair fecht, sir. Mah mukker 'ere misses his lassie.’_ : pardonnez-moi (forgive me) if you are Scottish. I had to make the conversation a bit colourful here. The meaning of the sentence is just “It’s a struggle, sir. My friend here misses his girl.”, or so the translator said. I’m no Scottish. Forgive me if I got something wrong.  
>  _‘Backgammon player’_ : it is a 18th century British expression to refer to homosexuals. I had to scavenge a bit for this. I’m so proud of having found it.  
>  _‘Cer i grafu’_ : in this case pardonnez-moi if you are Welsh. It should mean “Fuck off”, as my researches suggested. May I point out that I bloody love Welsh? I wish I could speak it.  
>  _Last note, about people in John’s section_ : John’s section is the second section of the platoon of which he is lieutenant. At the moment it is made by seven people, John included.  
> They are (more to understand my madness and for general knowledge, than for real necessity):  
> \- Mike Stamford, corporal (no need to explain who he his).  
> \- Bill Murray, lance corporal (in the canon he was the one who saved John from certain death)  
> \- Phil is, well, Philip Anderson (and we all know, or so I hope, who he is). I don’t know why, but I have liked him since the first season, so I felt obliged to make him less stupid than he seems.  
> \- Charlie’s surname is Dimmock, taken from The Blind Banker. There was no suggested name given in the series, so I went for a common one.  
> \- Stan, alias Stanley Hopkins, is one of the many police officers Doyle’s Sherlock meets in the novels.  
> \- Alfred Barton. Barton is another police officer in Doyle’s novels. We don’t know his name, so I went for Alfred, no specific reason for the choice.


	2. χ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "χ" of the chapter's title is the 22nd letter of the Greek alphabet. Its transliteration is "chi" and it's pronounced /ˈkaɪ/ or /ˈkiː/ in English. It's the first letter in the Greek word for 'Christ", therefore the abbreviation of the word "Christmas" into "Xmas" is not entirely inappropriate.
> 
> Many, many, many thanks to my amazing beta reader, [JuJuBee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcy09/pseuds/JuJuBee), who's keeping up with my madness.

_Winchester, England, 25 th December 1914_

_It’s Christmas and it doesn’t look like Christmas at all._

_Yesterday evening we arrived at Winchester’s headquarters. Some men of our company got leave for two days, but also got the warning to be ready to be called back in case of extreme necessity. I have never seen a sadder England than the one before my eyes._

_People here in Winchester don’t talk about what is happening. I tried to gain information from another lieutenant who has been here for a rather long time and he said that we are still waiting for precise orders. He said that we are certainly going to France, although, when I asked him about our luck in war, he said nothing. He simply shook his head and all I could see were his gloomy eyes under the helmet. It’s not going well._

“John!”, yelled Mike.

John raised his eyes from the journal and gave a quick look to his friend, before lowering them again on his writing. He hoped that his man understood that he didn’t want to be disturbed.

“John,”, continued Mike, unaware of his friend’s inner struggle “what are you doing here all alone? It’s Christmas!”

“We have nothing to be cheerful on, Mike.”

“Yeah. I know we don’t. But at least you should come and drink a pint with us in the town.”

“I’m really not in the mood, Mike. Seriously, I just feel…”

But John did not end the sentence. He did not know how he was feeling and he deeply wished to have someone to talk to, someone who would understand his doubts, his regrets, his fears. Mike and the others were good friends during the careless days, but now he felt the need to have an understanding companion who could just sit and listen to his useless words. Still, there was no such man in his section, neither was there one in his platoon.

Actually, the only man who came to John’s mind that vaguely resembled his idea was captain Waters. He would have loved to talk to him for a while, but he was probably busy with his preparations or, maybe, he had mistaken him and he was out, enjoying the Christmas’ atmosphere. He sighed.

“Sorry, Mike. I’m not in the mood.”, he concluded.

His corporal looked at him with troubled eyes and left.

John stood up and left his lodging. He needed some fresh air and he badly needed to clear his mind.

He loitered for a while around the headquarters. The place was almost completely silent since most of the men had gone down to the town to spend the evening there. Christmas. It was Christmas and at the same time it wasn’t. How could there be Christmas when there was war? Did the festivities mean something for human kind, when hope was just a hopeless feeling? John hadn’t the answers for his questions and felt even more lonely than he was.

He remembered one Christmas with his family when he was eleven. His father had bought him a book as a present. It was a wonderful book of British folk stories which John had devoured. He and his brother had spent the whole day reading it and imagining they were the protagonists of those tales. Their aunt had prepared the most delicious pudding for lunch and in the evening they had sung Christmas carols until midnight came. It was a silly memory, but it brightened his mood.

“What are we thinking about, Lieutenant?”, a voice asked.

John came back to Earth and turned to see Captain Waters’ face.

“Good memories?”

“Yes.”, replied John “I was thinking about a Christmas day almost twenty years ago. I was eleven back then and there was no war haunting my thoughts.”

“War is haunting everyone’s thoughts at the moment.”

“They still find the strength to celebrate, I don’t. I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“I am not celebrating either.”

“Well, I guess you have been too occupied at the headquarters to find the time to join your company…”

“I have. But even if I hadn’t, I would have not joined them. I don’t see anything worthy of celebrations around.”

John weighed Waters’ words, trying to understand what they meant under the surface.

“Have you got a family, Watson?”, the captain asked, offering John a cigarette which John accepted.

“I had a family. My parents died a long time ago. I still have a brother but we don’t talk to each other anymore and I don’t know where he is or what has happened to him.”

“No wife or girlfriend?”

“Neither. I don’t seem to have any relevant bonds.”

“I have a wife back home and a small child, whom I won’t have the chance to see grow up and become a man.”

John looked at the captain, whose eyes expressed all the sorrow he was hiding deep inside. John knew what he was feeling, because he was feeling that too: it was the conscious thought of walking, talking, going on and being dead inside at the same time. He wanted to comfort him, even though he knew that there were no appropriate words able to fulfil that desire.

“We may survive.”, he said, knowing how weak those words sounded.

“You still don’t know where we are being sent, am I right?”

John shook his head.

“No, I don’t. Our captain hasn’t talked to us yet. He will tomorrow, hopefully.”

“The Salient. We are going there.”

“The…what?”

“The Salient. It’s where British and French had endured defeat more than once and where we had the greatest number of casualties. HQ won’t openly speak of numbers, but rumours say that we are beyond two hundred thousand deaths.”

John gawked, mouth open, heart skipping more than a beat.

“Two hundred thousand?”

“It’s unofficial, yet not denied by anyone.”

John mumbled something to himself.

“What troubles you, Lieutenant? There’s something you don’t say, but it’s clearly shown by your expression.”

John wearily smiled.

“You know,”, he started “war scares me. It scares me to the point I do not fear death anymore. What terrifies me is the other people dying. Is the fact that probably I will be sent in the rear with the RAMC and my friends will be alone on the front. There’ll be no one healing their wounds, nobody checking their injuries in time, then they will get infected. And they will be dead before coming to me, I’ll see their dead bodies and I’ll know I could have done more, I could have saved them. This tortures me.”

“You weren’t joking when you said you are a doctor?”, asked Waters, surprised by the revelation.

“I am afraid I was very serious. And I know that I should work in a hospital with the other doctors, but I simply can’t leave my men, each one of them, alone out there. I don’t want to see them die without being able to help them.”

Waters furrowed and stayed pensive for some seconds.

“You are a weird creature, Watson.”, he eventually concluded “There are men who would pay to stay in the rear because it would probably save their lives. And you’d prefer to risk your own life, but help the others?”

“I chose medicine for a reason, Captain.”

“And you chose the army too. They won’t let you go on the front, are you aware of that?”

“I wouldn’t be this concerned if I weren’t.”

“Don’t let them.”

John blinked in amazement.

“S-sorry?”, he asked, dumbfounded.

“Fight, lieutenant. Your first battle won’t be on the French soil, it will be here. You have to persuade the High Command of your theory. You will have to show them your strength, tell them what do you think. Fight, Lieutenant.”

“They will hang me for insubordination.”

“They need doctors. They won’t.”

As Waters pronounced that speech, John could clearly see his eyes ablaze in the evening darkness.

“Do you think it is the right thing to do, then?”, asked John, words filled with doubts “I mean, don’t you think I’m mad?”

“You are more than mad, Watson. But you are a selfless person and in war that should count for something. If your selflessness saves more lives, I highly doubt that they will refuse your proposal.”

“I suppose…”, John felt incredibly embarrassed and at a loss of words “Well, thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for.”

They parted in silence. John returned to his lodging. He still had no reason to be merry and join the others, but his heart was a little lighter and so was Waters’ one.

 

\------------*O*------------

 

Sherlock sat pensively at the window. It was five p.m., but the sun had already disappeared beyond the horizon, leaving a lilac sky where the first stars blazed. It was the 25th December, Christmas, and, as always, Sherlock found it to be a stupid tradition. He couldn’t be bothered about presents, decorations, merriness. That meant nothing to him.

The fact that the Christmas festivities were a calque of his beloved Saturnalia, upset him even more.

But what he couldn’t really stand about the Christmas day was the family dinner. He loathed it. He loathed sitting with relatives whose names he couldn’t even remember, he loathed the smile on his parents’ faces like Christmas was the best thing on Earth, he loathed sitting next to his annoying cousin Molly who, as usual, would bore him with her nonsensical blabbering. He desperately wished to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Even in a muddy battlefield in France, fighting for a country he couldn’t care less about. Anything to avoid three hours of tedious Christmas dinner.

Knocking at the door.

“Yuuuhuu!”

_Mrs. Hudson_ , thought Sherlock.

“Shut up!”, he shouted, annoyed.

Being her used to Sherlock’s tantrums, she just stepped in. Sherlock huffed and didn’t turn his head towards his governess.

“You haven’t dressed yet, Sherlock.”, she said in a despairing tone “Dinner is to be served in one hour and a half and you’re still in your dressing gown!”

“I am able to put my clothes on in less than three minutes, if that worries you that much.”

Mrs. Hudson didn’t listen to his complaining and went on.

“And you have to meet your relatives in less than thirty minutes, Sherlock, so get dressed.”

“Is this farce really necessary?”

“It isn’t a farce, Sherlock, dear. It is a Christmas dinner!”, she tried to bring the young man to reason.

Sherlock jumped upright and turned to her.

“It isn’t? It isn’t?”, he snorted in a nervous laugh “How isn’t it? My mother hates my father’s sister, she keeps on smiling when she would gladly murder her bare handed. My father disapproves his brother’s lack of backbone towards his children, so they will probably quarrel the whole evening about this or that wrong decision. Aunt Sarah will bore everyone to death for the umpteenth time with the stories of her garden, and my brother will be obnoxious enough to talk about politics and war. The only comfort I’ll have is Molly, who has the wonderful quality of making my brain rot with her flibbertigibbet. Can you see how facetious this whole thing is, now?”

“Oh, Sherlock, you’re always mean about your family!”

Sherlock grunted.

“Yes, mean. I despise them, therefore I am mean. I can’t help it.”

“Hey, stop it now, young man! It’s family!”

“It’s because they are _family_ that I loathe them. Their fake smiles and their useless blah blah about topics I can’t find myself interested in. In the slightest.”

“Think about those who are out there fighting, Sherlock! I’m sure they would be more than happy to trade places with you and spend Christmas with their beloved ones, instead than out in the cold, risking death.”

“I’d be more than happy to trade this fake merriment with a bullet.”

“You aren’t serious, Sherlock. That’s a horrible thing to say. A very horrible thing.”, Mrs. Hudson pleaded “Try to behave nicely, just this once. I’m sure you don’t really believe everything that comes out from your mouth.”

Sherlock brusquely turned away and sat to face the window again, huffing heavily.

Mrs. Hudson, who was used to Sherlock’s black moods, simply left the room.

“Get dressed, young man.”, she remarked one more time as she closed the door behind.

_Can’t just they leave me alone?_ , he thought, while getting up and moving to the clothes he was supposed to wear that evening, _it’s Christmas and I wish it weren’t. What use do we have for Christmas? What do we have to be merry for?_

He slowly put the white waistcoat on, pressing the shirt’s collar into wings.

In a family like his – and the Holmes were immensely rich and powerful – a valet would usually assist the vesting, but Sherlock hated people touching him and had refused to have someone to help him in with that task. After all he was a grown-up and found the whole tradition somewhat ridiculous: he could get dressed without any help, why couldn’t the others do so too?

He got into his black trousers and wore the matching tailcoat. He voluntarily left the tie on the bed and picked up his old bow-tie. If he had to go to war – and he considered family gatherings just like war – it would be logical to go with his lucky charm at least. He grinned an angry grin at the mirror and dramatically walked out of his room, slamming the door behind him.

As he ambled downstairs, he put his hands in his black curls and slightly ruffled them, knowing for a fact that his mother wouldn’t have approved it. He allowed himself a mischievous smile as he did it.

In the hall he was welcomed by his brother who looked at him as though he had just seen a ghost.

“I see that you’re deigning us with your presence tonight.”, Mycroft weakly smiled at his brother.

“Shush, Mycroft.”, snorted Sherlock in response.

“Don’t you love these family gatherings?”, his brother smirked.

“As much as you love them.”

Sherlock knew that his brother wasn’t any happier than himself to attend lunches, dinners and other amenities with their family, but at least he was more at ease with people than Sherlock. He could talk about the most varied topics and keep the conversation interesting. Sherlock had nothing to talk about, books aside. Moreover, the conversations he always got involved in usually included marriages or engagements, and ended with this or that relative posing him the same old question: ‘when is your turn, dear?’. Mycroft was subtle enough to avoid being tangled in those futile matters, for he knew how to deal with people, Sherlock didn’t. And that was the most hateful thing of family gatherings: people.

“So, Sherlock dear, how are the studies going?”

“Don’t pretend to be curious about it, Mycroft. You’re wasting your breath.”

“Always resentful, brother mine. It’s Christmas! Try to be less…chilly.”

“And you should try to improve your fake smile. Your joviality is more similar to ice-cold water than to genuine happiness.”

The two brothers stared at each other. Sherlock wished to sneak out of the hall or, on second thought, to vanish in snap of fingers like some charlatans did. He fidgeted nervously moving his full weight from the right leg to the left, and vice-versa. Mycroft stayed still, waiting for their parents to join them and for the guests to arrive.

Lady Violet Holmes, née Carlton, gracefully descended the flight of stairs. Despite her not so young age, she looked flawless in her lavender evening dress. Both Sherlock and Mycroft know the sway that their mother had over anyone. She could simply walk into a room and everyone would automatically turn their heads, completely captured by her presence. She was the perfect woman for the British aristocracy; there was no other woman who could compete with her.

As she noticed her younger son’s ruffled hair, she immediately marched towards him, snorting her discontent.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, what have you done to your hair?”, she said, while putting her hands into her son’s curls to flat them.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but stayed obediently still. It was pointless to discuss this with his mother, as she won every time.

“It’s so nice to see you, Mycroft.”, she eventually said, leaving Sherlock alone “I thought you wouldn’t have made it. I imagine you’re much busy these days with what’s going on. I’m glad you came, dear.”

“I would have not missed it for anything in the world, mother.”, smiled Mycroft.

It had always somewhat impressed Sherlock how his brother could fool their mother on those occasions. A smile from her children on Christmas was enough to persuade her that they were happy to be there. And she wasn’t a woman that could be easily fooled. Especially not by her own family members. He guessed that Christmas made her softer, more gullible somehow.

Sherlock’s father arrived a few moments later. His lean, tall figure commanded respect at first sight. Most of the people he had met in his life bowed before him just by looking at his exterior appearance. He was a man who, like his wife, embodied the perfect example of nobility and severity. Yet, with advancing age, he had become less severe and was more prone to converse about the past than about the future.

Lord Sieger Holmes greeted Mycroft and Sherlock with a forced smile.

“They should almost be here.”, said Lady Violet “Remember to behave. Each of you.”

And she pointed at the three of them, they nodded simultaneously.

Minutes later, their guests appeared at the door. They greeted them one by one and moved to the dining room. As Sherlock had suspected he was trapped between Mycroft and Molly and opposite his aunt Alexandra, his father’s sister, who in turn sat next to his mother. That meant that Sherlock would be doomed to hell for the whole evening.

Molly immediately started to chat with him.

“So, Sherlock, have you read the novel I lent you?”

Sherlock pondered on what Molly was talking about, because, for some reason, he couldn’t even remember whether she had lent a book to him or not. He tried to recap. The last time he had seen Molly had been in September, the day before he had returned back to Oxford. They had strolled in the garden for a couple of hours and Molly had constantly blabbered about a book. A book, the name of which he couldn’t remember. A book he hadn’t been interested in, yet he had taken it from her hands, pitying her attempts to stimulate his ears.

“Yes.”, he eventually answered, evidently irked by the effort.

“Oh.”, she smiled, her cheeks tinted cherry-blossom “Did you like it?”

_Be polite, Sherlock, be polite_ , he reminded to himself, while piercing  a foie gras canapé with the tip of his fork.

“It was…fascinating. Not my style, but fascinating.”, he managed to answer without sounding insincere.

Molly seemed happy with his answer and smiled one more time. His aunt Alexandra saved him from the next question, capturing Molly’s attention with a compliment about her dress.

“Liar.”, Mycroft whispered to him, between his teeth “You most certainly have almost no idea of which book she’s talking about.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

“How’s Lestrade?”, he retorted in a quite inaudible hiss.

“Turning the tables, are we?” Mycroft nonchalantly raised his glass of wine and took a sip “He’s back in England, in Winchester, anyway.”

“I am surprised he’s not here tonight. Hasn’t your brilliant cabinet found a way to make him stay?”

“He doesn’t want to.”, he lamented in a groan.

“Your persuasive skills are failing, huh?”

“I’m not willing to delve any further into this conversation, brother mine.”

“Pity. It was the only thing worth talking about this evening.”

“Certainly not.”, smirked Mycroft “The only thing worth talking about this evening is your eventual marriage, Sherlock.”

The older Holmes brother said, raising his voice, grinning and turning to aunt Sarah.

“Don’t you think, dear aunt?”

In that precise moment Sherlock was sure that he could have killed Mycroft. Bare handed, in cold blood and before a dozen of witnesses. He did not care. The topic he was trying to avoid landed on him like a boulder. Aunt Sarah smiled her usual gritty smile.

“Sherlock, dear, why have you turned down Elaine Fairfax? She is lovely and her father’s capital is appealing for a young man like you. With all that money you could go on with your studies and never bother about it.”

He struggled to remember why he had refused her. He had a vague memory of an ephemeral, hollow girl with red ringlets who kept talking about her dogs and horses. He acknowledged that he wasn’t even sure whether she was Elaine Fairfax or not. Maybe the red curled one was Joanne, or Katarina, or some other girl his family had desperately tried to engage him with.

“She wasn’t right for the Holmes family. I want what’sbest for me and for the family.”, he stated in a serious tone.

“I know, dear. I know how much you care about the family’s reputation and…”

Sherlock lost his aunt at this point. He could easily fake his interest in the ‘Holmes’ reputation’ when the things turned sour for him. It was his backup plan: when they started to insist on his marriage, he retreated with the same old strategy. He wanted the right one, the one who could hold up the Holmes’ name. Truth be told? He couldn’t care less. Firstly, because he had no intention of getting married, secondly, because he loathed people, and marriage meant a silly, tedious woman around him the whole life. Marriage, relationships, people. How pointless was all that in his eyes!

Nevertheless, what annoyed him the most was the fact that those questions were almost never asked of his brother. The pretext was that he was a ‘ _very busy man_ ’ and ‘ _poor him, he has no time for these trivial matters, especially now with the war_ ’. That was the official excuse behind which his brother easily entrenched himself. Except that Sherlock knew that the real reason was named Lestrade. And that Lestrade was undoubtedly a man. Oh, the scandal if their dear aunts and uncles had discovered it! And although Sherlock didn’t like his brother much, he never threatened to reveal his secret relationship. Unlike nearly everyone else in whole world, he couldn’t care less whom his brother had decided to spend his life, be it a man, a woman or even a plant. Since he started his relationship with Lestrade, Mycroft had been a bit more tolerable and that was all that mattered to him.

Sometimes Sherlock wondered if he would ever find someone suitable for himself. He never focused on the thought, but now and then it popped up in his mind. And he couldn’t help but wonder.

Half dinner was gone and Sherlock’s discomfort grew minute by minute. The conversation had turned to silly topics all over the table and he started to seek shelter in his mind palace.

People.

_Personae_ in Latin. _Persona_ ’s first meaning was ‘mask’. People were empty shells wearing a mask. The entire world was made of masks, laughing, crying, grimacing, screaming, quarrelling. A plethora of emotions to hide the void beneath the manifest surface. _Manifestus_ blatant, apparent, evident. The evidence of nothingness. They manifested themselves in their masks, and in their manifestation they lost their ego, their personality. Some lost even their souls.

Nausea.

He started to feel sick at the farce of marionettes around him. They danced, faked, smiled, moved, and danced some more. He blinked, trying to regain his composure. He was short of breath, like his nose refused to supply his lungs with oxygen. _Oxys,_ acid. _Gen,_ from _gignomai_ , to generate, to become. It was somewhat funny that nothing in his body seemed to work properly right now except his brain.

He tried to get a hold of himself. Mycroft gave him a curious quick glance and Sherlock inhaled two or three times, before finally managing to win over his failing body.

“Are you alright?”, asked Molly, who had noticed her cousin’s struggles.

“Yes, yes.”, he promptly answered “I’m just…tired. I’ve been studying a lot lately and it is consuming me.”

“Oh. Tell me if there’s anything I could do for you.”, she offered expectantly.

Mycroft shook his head in a way that Sherlock understood. He meant: _she’s so hopelessly in love with you._

“Thank you, Molly. I’m fine, seriously. Fine.”

When they were savouring the dessert, Mycroft requested permission to speak. Sherlock’s father nodded his approval. Mycroft stood up.

“Father, mother. Brother. Aunts and uncles. Cousins.”, he began pompously “The times we are living in are hard indeed. Terrible times. War is spreading and thus the hate that Germany is pouring all over the countries…”

Sherlock couldn’t help letting escape a light chuckle. Mycroft froze him with a glance.

“…Germany is pouring in all over the countries. It is our duty as British citizens and patriots to stop this from going any farther. Our soldiers fight in the fields against a force that seems unstoppable. Every man in this country who is fighting right now, while we are here celebrating should be thanked, for we owe them for this opportunity to be merry while they suffer at war.”

He stopped and the table applauded. Sherlock stayed still, the corners of his mouth bent in a half smile, half grimace. The all king and country Mycroft amused and disgusted him altogether.

“Our family entirely supports the effort of the British Army and has been deeply affected, like everyone else, by the shocking, saddening news of many casualties. People are being sent back from the front to Britain to be treated. Doctors and nurses who have seen them describe their wounds as unimaginable, their sufferings as heart-breaking. The hospitals are starting to be overcrowded beyond their capacity. Therefore, many generous families have opened their estates to host private hospitals with doctors and nurses which provide our soldiers, our men, with a safe shelter from the horrors of the war and allow them to recover in peace. It is our duty to help them, because they are the pillar of our country. And if our motherland and fatherland can still call itself free, we should praise those men. For this precise reason, with my father’s full permission, I am proud to announce that a part of this house will host a private hospital to help our soldiers recover and thus our country win this war. God save the king!”

The table echoed Mycroft’s words, tears in the eyes of all those at dinner. In Sherlock’s opinion, it was just like a scene from a painting: the merriment of Christmas, the luxurious food, the ostentatious dresses and jewels, the tears of the ladies and of the men. A painter would have paid to sketch it down. It would have become a masterpiece: “ _The blessedness of sacrifice_ ”.

He stayed silent, hiding his discomfort under a pretentious smile.

When Mycroft sat down, Sherlock didn’t even turn his head to him, but he pouted.

“No one asked my opinion, as always.”

“Why should we? Aren’t they all ‘trivial matters’ to you? The war, the soldiers?”

“It’s a bit different when, from now on, I am expected to cohabit with people I don’t know and who, I am certain, will trouble my mind with constant noises to no end.”

“Doubtfully you will meet them. The hospital won’t be operative before the end of January and by that time, correct me if I’m wrong, you should be back to Oxford. Unless I’m missing something.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Still, I will be back in June and I will have to work on my thesis then. How am I supposed to concentrate with soldiers groaning all around, dear brother?”

“Maybe by June the war will have ended.”, remarked Mycroft.

“That’s utterly ridiculous, Mycroft. Peasants might be fooled by that rhetoric, but I’m nobody’s fool”, retorted Sherlock with an annoyed grin “This war won’t end by June nor by July nor August, and you bloody well know it.”

“Your observation skills haven’t weakened at all, I see.”

“They have become sharper,” hissed Sherlock.

“You could make ~~a~~ good use of them. For…us. If you know what I mean.”

“A tempting offer. Which, as you may know, I refuse.”, he grinned wider and hissed in his brother’s ear “Completely.”

Mycroft shrugged his shoulders and went back to conversing with aunt Alexandra, who was still complimenting him for his decision.

Sherlock, having reached the limit of his tolerance of his family, stood to take his exit, planning to lock himself in his bedroom. But before he could even make a step, his mother froze him on spot with a severe glance.

“You will play the violin for us.”, she ordered “Won’t you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and thought three or four times before managing to form a coherent sentence that wasn’t either a swearing word or an insult.

“Yes, sure, mother.”

At least the violin would keep him occupied and would keep him away from the dinner table and its conversations. A servant brought him his venerated Stradivari and he settled himself near the window.

He decided to play the transcription for violin of Handel’s Messiah’s Hallelujah chorus. He didn’t like Handel much, but his mother and his father were quite fond of him and he reasonably thought that, at least, doing something pleasant for them wouldn’t hurt. As the bow caressed the strings, the whole world disappeared and his brain fell silent.

_Ohne Musik wäre das Leben ein Irrtum_.

And Sherlock, for once, fully agreed.

 

\------------*O*------------

 

_Winchester, England, 1 st January 1915_

_It’s bloody freezing today at the headquarters._

_It has rained heavily all night long and now a light, icy drizzle is falling from the sky, penetrating our flesh and bones. The roads are paved with puddles of mud and every training we have done this morning had been a struggle. I’m soaked in mud and I smell like a wet dog that had the disgrace to swim in the Thames._

_I forgot to mention that it’s 1915. The first day of 1915._

_A year that has opened with the news of our imminent departure from England. As of yesterday afternoon we have been assigned to the 84 th Brigade, 28th Division under the command of general Edward Bulfin, who is fighting in France and, considering what we have heard, has already demonstrated his valour in different occasions, especially during the First Battle of Ypres – a complete massacre, as many said._

_And Captain Waters was absolutely right. We are going to the Salient. Which, we learnt during these last days, it’s the most gruesome front, known for the highest number of casualties among British and French soldiers._

_The only news I can be glad about is the fact that I have been able to persuade the High Command – just as Waters had predicted – that I could be more useful in the frontline with my men, instead than in the rear. Mike and Bill rejoiced at the news, Phil pouted that I am mad. I probably am, because I have almost certainly just traded my life for the sake of other people’s lives. But isn’t it what a doctor should do? And am I not a doctor? Yes. Then I don’t regret my decision, in the slightest._

_Despite the acceptance of the HQ, I have been informed that I cannot change my decision. I cannot step back and decide to join the RAMC. Yet they have agreed that a doctor in the frontline could really make a difference._

_In other news: our section has acquired its last man. But this isn’t a good news at all. He is barely a boy. He says he’s eighteen, but he looks more like he’s fifteen or sixteen. I won’t investigate, yet my heart aches at the idea of this young man who should be happy and merry, instead of risking his life in war. I hope that nothing happens to him. It will be my primary duty to look after him, for he cannot look after himself at all. I’ve seen him in the training: he can barely handle a rifle and he trembles whenever he hears a shot. I feel so sorry for him. I wish I could help him in another way, I wish I could send him back to his family, I wish this war had never started. For him and for all the other boys who are hopelessly fighting for our freedom. I wish, but the truth remains a deep black hole of despair._

_His name his Arthur, but we already call him Arthie. Mike, Bill and Phil have promised to take care of him too, in the case that something happens to me. They seemed pretty shocked by his apparent young age too._

_We are set to leave on 17th January and reach Le Havre on 18th January._

_Then we will be transferred to the Salient. Then everything is going to start. Whatever that everything is. Most probably Death._

_Lieutenant John H. Watson_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few historical, and some other, notes to understand the story better.  
>  _Salient_ : it is a military term which describes a battlefield feature that projects into enemy territory. The salient is surrounded by the enemy on three sides, making the troops occupying the salient vulnerable.  
>  _The Salient_ : in WWI, the British occupied a large salient at Ypres (a Belgian town) for most of the war. Formed as a result of the First Battle of Ypres (see below for more information about it), it soon became one of the most bloody sectors of the Western front. So enduring was the feature and so dreadful its reputation that when British Infantry spoke of “The Salient”, it was understood that they were referring to Ypres. The 2nd Battalion of Northumberland Fusiliers was effectively sent there and the dates you find are historically accurate. Obviously there was no John Watson in it. :)  
>  _Saturnalia_ : I’m sorry but this whole lot is a bit of a spoiler about Sherlock’s studies (if you haven’t already guessed what he is studying yet). Anyway: Saturnalia was an ancient Roman festival in honour of the deity Saturn, held on the 17th of December of the Julian calendar and later expanded with festivities through to the 23rd of December. The holiday was celebrated with a sacrifice at the Temple of Saturn, in the Roman Forum, and a public banquet, followed by private gift-giving, continual partying, and a carnival atmosphere that overturned Roman social norms: gambling was permitted, and masters provided table service for their slaves. Christian’s Christmas directly derives from this pagan festivity.  
>  _Persona, personae_ : persona in Latin means exactly ‘mask’. It is a word that comes from the theatre where the actors wore masks throughout the whole representation. It is still somewhat common nowadays, in the world of the theatre, that the actors of a play are referred to as the “dramatis personae”. Only later on, the word started to be used to describe a human being, taking the current meaning of “person”. I hope I have been clear.  
>  _Manifestus_ : still Latin. It just means, as Sherlock remarks, “evident, apparent”.  
>  _Oxygen_ : it exactly means “acid forming”, or “generating acid”, or “becoming acid”. Yeah, it looks like we are breathing acid. Blame the ancient Greeks for this, not me. The ancient Greek verb ‘gignomai’ has given origin to the suffix “-gen”, so, every time you see a word that ends with “-gen” (like ‘pathogen’, ‘hydrogen’, ‘hallucinogen’) remember that it means “generating ‘something’”.  
>  _Ohne Musik wäre das Leben ein Irrtum._ : this is a quotation from “Twilight of the Idols”, by the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzche. It means “Without music, life would be a mistake.” I think I have just spoiled that Sherlock speaks German. Oh, whatever.  
>  _Edward Bulfin_ : he isn’t a fictional character but was really the commander of the 28th Division of which John’s battalion is part. Every historical information I wrote about him in the chapter is accurate.  
>  _The First Battle of Ypres_ : it would take me ages to describe it in details. I’ll try to cut it short. The First Battle of Ypres was fought for the strategically important town of Ypres in Belgium, between October and November 1914. The accepted reasoning for the Ypres battle was the British desire to secure the English Channel ports and the British Army’s supply lines; while for the Germans Ypres was the last major obstacle to advance deeper in the French territory.  
> The battle highlighted problems in command and control for both sides. The battle was also significant as it witnessed the destruction of the highly trained British regular army. Having suffered enormous losses for its small size, it actually disappeared.  
> The result was a victory for the Allies (France and Britain), although losses were particularly heavy on both sides. The battle also inaugurated the stalemate state of the Western Front and saw the birth of the Salient of Ypres.  
> The British casualties were estimated to be around 55.000.  
>  _Last, small, rather important note_ : Arthur. The full boy’s name is Arthur Doyle, my personal tribute to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, thanks to whom Sherlock exists. He didn’t directly participate to WWI, but he wrote a book about it, which is called “The British campaign in France and Flanders.”


	3. Vous qui dites : "Mourir, c’est le sort le plus beau".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter comes from a poem by the French author Henry-Jacques who fought in First World War and narrated his experience through his poems. It translates: "You who say: 'To die, that's the best destiny of all.'" Obviously, as many trench writers, his experience was so horrible that it haunted him, therefore all his poems are strictly anti-war ones.
> 
> Sorry for being this late and slow in publishing, but real life has been a constant nightmare through these weeks and I barely had time to breathe until today. 
> 
> As always I have to thank my lovely beta Marcy, who is still doing a fantastic job in coping with my mess and she's also being a lot supportive too!
> 
> But thanks to you all, my lovely readers, too! I sincerely hope you're appreciating this!

_Le Havre, France, 18 th January 1915_

_The world seems greyer from here. If I ever thought that Britain was deeply affected by the war, it was only because I still hadn’t seen France._

_Here everything seems to have been swallowed by war itself. The population of Le Havre seems to have lost not only the strength to live, but even the colour of their skins. They look like pale ghosts, ready to be devoured by the constant mist that lingers in the area. There aren’t any young men here, only women and elders with their weary eyes and a handful of memories on which they desperately cling to survive._

_Most of the people here, most of the youth have gone ‘à la guerre’ as they say._

_And when they see us, in our uniforms, still rosy and alive, they pity us. One old man we encountered today asked me – in his faltering English - where_ _we were_ _headed. I answered ‘Ypres’ and I swear that I saw tears in his eyes as he started a monotonous lullaby of “pauvre, pauvre, mon pauvre garçon! Tu ne survivras pas! Si jeune, si jeune!”_

_I am lucky I can understand a little of French, but the majority of my platoon barely understands the basics of it and this is surely going to create problems on the battlefield. How are we supposed to communicate if we don’t understand each other? How are we supposed to fight side by side if we lack of communication? Apparently I seem the only one concerned about it, but I sincerely hope to be wrong._

_Anyway,_ _since we_ _landed here we have received more news about our establishment in the Ypres trenches. The first week my company – as some other companies - will stay in the reserve line, which is the last line of the trench system, to acclimatise to the environment, which is said to be rather shocking. Then we will be transferred to the support line and, subsequently, to the front line where we will serve for about one week, before the cycle starts anew._

_Abbeville, France, 20 th January 1915_

_We are slowly approaching to Ypres, but the weather isn’t helping our Division. It is raining so hard that we find it difficult to proceed further without_ _risking the loss of men._ _It’s still a miracle that we have managed to reach the town without further complication._

_The city is crossed by the river Somme, which, due to the heavy rains, looks like a stormy brown ocean. And it’s terribly cold. And I’m wet to the bones. And I see mud, mud, and other mud. And I hear thunder ~~s~~ in the distance, which, I suspect, _ _isn’t_ _thunder at all, but, probably, the allied artillery. Or the German one. I don’t care. It just means that we are bloody near._

_There’s no coming back from now on._

_Reserve Line, Ypres, Belgium, 24 th January 1915_

_We reached the Salient two days ago and I have no words to describe what I’m seeing before my eyes. I don’t think that there even exist words that could describe it. I’m speechless, shocked, dismayed. I was ready for the war, I wasn’t ready for this._

_What’s ‘this’ I have yet to decide._

_This is smell, first._

_This is decay, second._

_This is hopelessness, third._

_This is a trench._

_And this is where I am going to live._

_When you arrive here you aren’t prepared. No one has told you how it is, how the reek permeates the air, how it grips your nostrils, your bronchial tubes, every single alveolus in your lungs. There’s the stench of urine, there’s the stench of chemicals, there’s the stench of rotting carcasses. And we aren’t even in the frontline! There isn’t a single corpse around us and yet I can perfectly smell the stink of decomposing flesh! There should be thousands of carcasses out there._

_It is making everyone sick._

_Arthie has already vomited his guts and his soul, and has spent the last day by looking paler and paler, hollow eyes fixed to the sky above. I am pitying him. He’s so young and he has to see all this. Oh, human kind can be so cruel with its children!_

_In the meanwhile we are being instructed on how the trenches warfare works. There are some veterans who say that there isn’t much to do actually and that, probably, for most of the time we will be bored to death. I hardly believe it._

_Shots. Someone is shooting out there. We don’t know if it’s us or the enemy. It’s dark outside and we can only hope that nothing will happen to us. I am at a loss with myself. Am I still alive when I feel the nothingness inside?_

_Front Line, Ypres, 31 st January 1915_

_Moved to the front line today. We don’t know why, since we were supposed to be transferred here only after having stayed in the support line for a week. Yet we have skipped that passage. Captain_ _Roberts obviously hasn’t got the slightest idea about what’s happening._

_Here it’s two thousand times worse than in the reserve line. I certainly thought it would have been worse, but I didn’t expect it to be like hell itself._

_First there’s the noise, better: the silence of noise. It doesn’t make sense, does it? But it’s just like that. Apart from the soft noises of people talking, or humming, or walking, there’s an eerie silence permeating the air. But now and then there’s the noise. It could be a burst of shellfire, a scream, the wind howling in the trenches’ alleys. It fills the air like nothing else, it makes you flinch and fear for your life._

_And then, in the blink of an eye, it disappears, like it has never existed, like the trenches have devoured it. And silence falls again._

“There have already been two deaths.”, announced Mike, disconsolate.

John turned his head to his corporal who was standing at the threshold of the dugout they had been assigned to.

“Our platoon?”, inquired John, tremendously worried.

“No, no.”, promptly replied Mike, reassuring John’s concern “It was in Albertson’s platoon. Two kids. Seriously, they were only nineteen. They didn’t resist the urge to peer over the parapet and take a look into no man’s land. Two bullets. Sniper’s.”

_Fuck_.

“Damn it!”, John’s knuckles turned white, his lips imperceptibly shaking “They were instructed, for god’s sake, how could it…?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t had the temptation to do the same…”, Mike smirked weakly “…to see what the Alleymans are up to.”

“I’m not denying, but I forbade. You forbade. We all did!”, John yelled.

He was angry. He felt the anger growing inside, slithering like a snake around his heart. Why had they died? Why? They had been instructed. They had been told what to do and what to absolutely avoid.

_Don’t peer over the parapet. There are snipers out there. And those bloody Huns are terribly good at their job. One of their bullets in your bowler and you are kaput. Understood, soldiers?_

It had been their first lesson. It had been repeated over and over again. Don’t look. Resist your instinct. Just don’t. And yet it was their first day there and their companies had already suffered two losses. That was not even remotely near the word ‘good’. Damn it.

John felt tears amidst his anger, dampening his cheeks. He turned his head away from Mike. He could not possibly be that affected. He could not allow his feelings to creep to the surface. He was the bloody Lieutenant of a platoon and they were in war. There would be hundreds of casualties during their duty. And two deaths were already reducing him to tears. That wasn’t right, that wasn’t good.

Mike, as always, paid attention to his troubled mind.

“Yes, we all did.”, he calmly replied “But there’s the case. The destiny, if you prefer. And, John, there’s nothing wrong in crying…or being afraid. We all are. You don’t have to pretend that you are the strong one. We are all in the same boat. See? I’m trembling too.”

And as he said that, he stepped farther into the dugout. John clearly saw his friend’s red eyes even in the flickering light of the pit they were in, he saw his jaw contracted, his lips trembling, his hands white. It didn’t comfort him fully, but it made him feel less…alone.

“I…”, he muttered “…Mike, I…don’t even know if I’d be a good lieutenant. How can I give you, Bill, Phil, Stan and the others orders when I can barely manage to bear the death of two unknown men?”

“John, I’d be lying if I said you aren’t a good Lieutenant. We will get used to it. We will never be at ease with it, but we will get used to it.”, Mike forcedly smiled.

John tried to smile, but managed a wearily grin.

“Mike, assure me that we won’t lose any men stupidly. Promise me that if I ever give a wrong order, you’ll stop me.”

“We are in this together, lieutenant. I’ll do my best.”, he reassured.

John sighed, half relieved, half sad.

“I have to go to fetch some supplies, then I’ll have to do the second sentry duty on the fire step with Phil, after Charlie and Bill.”

“And I’m after that with Arthie.”, added John “I might as well go looking for him.”

“I think I saw him sitting on a wooden box out there, looking at the stars.”

John stretched his arms over his head and followed Mike out. The corporal parted in a different direction as John tried to get used both to the darker space of the trench and to the brisk wind. February was to begin in one hour and the weather was extremely cold.

Someone, when they had passed through the support trench had rejoiced that they were lucky it hadn’t snowed yet in January. The man had continued by saying that the first week of December had been a nightmare. A snowstorm had raged for two days. There had been so much snow that it had been hard to see beyond two metres and operations had been suspended until the snow ceased. _And the cold_ , he had said, _a cold that encircled your bones, that made your flesh hard as a rock, your fingers blue and your toes_ _ache._

Hearing that speech, John had been almost glad that they had come there without any snow, only rain, because he knew that some men wouldn’t have survived the march had that been the case.

He looked for Arthie in the dark, until he spotted the boy just as Mike had told him, sitting on a wooden box, gazing at the trembling stars above. He approached to him. The boy didn’t seem to notice John until he towered him with his shade.

“S-sorry, sir. I didn’t notice you.”, he immediately apologised, slightly embarrassed.

At first, John said nothing and simply set beside him, back leaning on the trench wall, careful that his helmet didn’t protrude over the parapet. It was actually impossible, being the trench 3.7 metres deep, but he had noticed that he wasn’t the only one checking it every time. Every soldier looked at the wall and confronted their own stature with it, like they had all suddenly turned into giants. And John too, from his own not-so-mannish stature, had done the same throughout the whole day.

“John.”, he eventually said, taking out a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it up.

Arthie looked at him a bit perplexed.

“Am sorry, sir?”

“Not ‘sir’, Arthie. Nobody in this section has ever called me ‘sir’. I’m John. Or, at worst, Lieutenant. But ‘sir’…save it for the other high ranks. That’s an official order.”, he faintly smiled.

“Yes, sir. I mean…John.”

“You should go and rest for a while, Arthie.”, John went on “We are supposed to be on duty in two hours and some sleep would do you good.”

“I can’t sleep, s… John.”, explained the boy “I can’t shut my eyes and sleep. I haven’t been able to since we arrived in the trenches last week. I just can’t.”

“You should try to, Arthie. Exhaustion in here won’t do any good to you. And I don’t want you to fall asleep on duty. You know what’s the penalty for that, don’t you?”

“The firing squad.”, the boy sighed.

John simply nodded.

“But it’s all so… I don’t know, Lieutenant, I didn’t think…”

“You didn’t think it would have been like this?”

Arthie slightly shook his head.

“No.”

“Arthie, nobody here was prepared to this. Nobody here is prepared to face a battle at all. We are all in the same mess, don’t feel any different from us.”

Arthie’s eyes brightened up, as if John had revealed the secrets of the universe to him.

“Are you scared too, si…John?”

“What kind ofquestion is that?”, smirked John “Of course I am scared. You know what makes you a good soldier, Arthie?”

Arthie shook his head once more.

“Fear.”

The boy gawked at him, astonished.

“W-what? I thought that bravery made a good soldier.”

“Bravery? Nah. ‘Bravery’ is just a different word for ‘stupidity’. It’s fear that keeps us alive, not bravery. Never forget that, Arthie.”

The boy didn’t seem persuaded and pondered in silence. John breathed in a puff of smoke and exhaled it out.

“You got a family, Arthie?”, he asked.

“Mh? Oh, yes. Mother and father. And an older brother and two younger sisters.”

“Pretty big family, I see.”, sighed John “They must be really worried about you now.”

“Mum was. She cried a lot when I left. My father was proud. He was a soldier, you know? He isn’t anymore. He got wounded somewhere and he can’t move his left arm anymore. He badly wanted to help the country in this war, so me and my brother went. He was so proud.”

John’s heart sank in his chest. He could see Arthie’s eyes glittering when he spoke about how his father was proud of him for his decision, he could see how happy he was to please his father.

But John thought otherwise.

He was just a little child to his eyes, who needed affection and care inside a happy home. His father should have told him that, shouldn’t have pushed him into a dark trench somewhere in Ypres. His father probably didn’t even know where Ypres was, probably didn’t know what the Salient was, probably he just imagined his son in his uniform happily marching under the sun, winning battle after battle. Just as though he went to a picnic, just as though it was the most beautiful thing on Earth. John kept his thoughts for him.

“Yes, I bet he was.”, he said, faking cheerfulness “But he would surely be prouder if you slept.”

The boy looked at him.

“Really, Arthie, take a nap.”

“Will you too?”

John shrugged his shoulders. _How can I sleep?_ , he asked to himself, yet he followed Arthie into the dugout and pretended to, until he heard the boy’s soft snoring.

 

_Front Line, Ypres, 4 th February 1915_

_Rats. There are bloody damn rats everywhere._

_Death doesn’t come in the shape of a bloody German soldier here. It comes in the shape of bloody rats._

_I am trying to clear the trench from them, but it’s a lost battle. One I kill, ten spring out from nowhere. They are bearer of disease and fetor, plus, as I witnessed ten minutes ago, they have a ‘thing’ for human carcasses. The one I have just killed was as big as an average cat and was happily munching what it totally looked like a human liver._

_What is worse is that, when darkness falls, they often scamper across our faces, making it even harder for us to get a proper sleep. We have tried everything to keep them away. Nothing works._

_If only rats were th_ _e only problem!_

_There are lice and, believe me, nothing – at least until now – is worse than lice. They attack every inch of our skin and it itches endlessly. I wish we could wash more times, but here it’s even hard to find three minutes to urinate, considering that the latrines are the worst place where one can be._

_The High Command and other veterans had warned us about the ‘piss problem’, but in the frontline is a totally new ‘experience’._

_Latrines in the front trench are curiously placed in advance, presumably to discourage any inclination to linger. But who would linger there, I ask to myself. Not only is the smell repulsive, but it’s a dangerous place to linger. Enemy forces usually detect ~~s~~ increased activity in such sites and subjects the area to artillery bombardment. We _ _learned that_ _the other day when Phil had a quite close encounter with a shell. Luckily the launch had been short and the explosion happened ten metres away from where Phil was ‘evacuating’. He swore that he would never go in a latrine again and that he would start to execute his physical needs in the communication trenches, like many soldiers already do._

_I had to dissuade him using my whole medical knowledge. Faeces are the best bearers of disease, after the rats, and we don’t really need more casualties. God, I don’t know what these men have in their minds sometimes and how most of them had managed to survive without a doctor around preventing them from doing such stupid things like defecate in communication trenches._

_I had to scold the whole platoon three times and I threatened them with sending them to sanitary duty if they don’t obey my orders. I also asked them to spread the word among the other platoons of our company, since no one seems to care much about that behaviour. Maybe a doctor’s opinion will convince them._

_Front Line, Ypres, 5 th February 1915_

_It may have been the most gruesome frontline in the Western Front, but at the moment NOTHING is happening. We are waiting for something to change._

_We are obviously not overeager to throw ourselves into a battle for life and death, but at least a small change in this stalemate would be more than welcome. Our movements during the day are restricted, given that we are constantly under watch by German sniper_ _s_ _. People here call them “Huns” or, calquing the French, “Alleymans”. I do not hate them, the German soldiers, I mean. They are just people like us who are fighting a war I still haven’t understood what_ _we are_ _fighting for. But some soldiers here do. Mostly those who lost a friend, a comrade, a brother, a relative due to them. I don’t hate them anyway. And I wouldn’t hate them even if they will take away Mike’s life, or Bill’s or that of any other man I know and I respect._

_It’s not their fault. Like us, they do their bloody job._

_Front Line, Ypres, 6 th February 1915 _

 

_Last day_ _on_ _the front line. Tonight we will be moved back to the support line, finally gaining – I hope – some rest. Oh, god, I hear someone scream. Oh god, help me._

“Whathappened?”, John yelled as he heard some other soldiers shouting.

“A man of our company, they say, critically wounded!”, answered a man.

“How the hell?”, John had the time to ask, before he actually saw the man.

But everything turned to a buzz in his ears as soon as he noticed two men tugging a third, whose left arm was covered in blood. He was screaming hard, and crying, and cursing at the same time. John looked at him, then at the two. They weren’t of his platoon.

He felt relieved for a second, before turning into his doctor-mode.

“We fucking need a doctor!”, one of the two bearers shouted.

“He won’t fucking make it!”, answered the other “By the time a fucking doctor or a fucking corpsman arrive here through the communication trenches he will be fucking dead, Paul!”

“Well, no need to swear!”, shouted John.

He didn’t know either of them. He was able to recognise aspects of almost everyman in his company and those weren’t familiar ones. They were – he was absolutely sure of that, since they also had no idea that there was a doctor with them – from the other company who was serving frontline duty with them. It was hard to remember all the faces of two hundred men.

“I swear how much I like!”, said the still-without-a-name one “Unless you have a fucking magic wand in your fucking pocket which could summon a fucking doctor here, now!”

“I may not have a magic wand, but I am a fucking doctor! So shut the fuck up and let me see the wound!”

The two soldiers looked at each other in the eyes and then stared at the clump of soldiers around. John’s whole platoon and some other men nodded simultaneously. The two men dropped they friend and stared at John pleadingly.

“Let me see it!”

“Are you really a doctor?”, asked the one namedPaul.

“Yes, yes. But there’s no time for chatting right now. What happened to him?”

John looked at the wound. The man was still shouting, but was also slowly losing consciousness due to copious blood leakage. His shouts were starting to be muffled and weaker. His crying turned into a continuous sobbing. John inhaled and tore off the soldier’s sleeve.

“I asked what has happened!”, he shouted, since the two hadn’t spoken a syllable yet.

They just stood there, hesitant, as if they were scared of something.

“Now!”, urged John, who had already had enough of that silence.

“He…jumped over the parapet.”, spit out the no-named one.

“He did what?”

“And got a bullet in the shoulder.”

John rolled his eyes and tried to understand where the bullet was. If he wanted to keep that soldier alive he had to extract the bullet on the spot and sew the cut.

“Mike!”, he yelled at his friend “The dugout. Near my stuffs. Medical kit, quick!”

Mike ran into the dugout.

“And, Bill, bring a bottle of rum.”

Bill rushed.

Thirty seconds later John was tying a leather tourniquet around the man’s arm and was instructing Mike on how to sterilise the scalpel he had in his medical kit with a lighter’s flame. Bill arrived with the rum in that exact moment.

“Perfect, Bill, thank you.”, he turned to Mike “Now, Mike, spill some of the rum over the blade but do not touch it with your hands.”

Operating in those conditions was a challenge, but he hoped to be able to save the man’s life and keep him stationary until the arrival of the Field Ambulance at dusk. He prayed toany deity out there to help him, even if he had never believed in a god, especially in those godless trenches. Mike did what he had ordered.

“Now give the rum to him and make him drink as much as he can. It will hurt. And he’s already suffering enough. Rum will ease the pain, even though it will increase the blood flow.”, he sighed.

He waited for the man to drink the liquor, then instructed Mike one more time.

“On my hands, now.”

The cold drink poured over his fingers and he washed them with it. _Alcohol kills bacteria_ , he thought, _let’s hope the trenches’ ones aren’t alcohol-resistant._

He finally took the scalpel in his hands – steady surgeon hands, he reminded to himself.

He plunged the blade into the soldier’s flesh. The man cried his pain and started to shiver under the not so gentle intrusion of iron in his shoulder. John circled the bullet-hole with careful, aimed touches until he eventually managed to extract it. The man sobbed harder. John sighed his relief as he dropped the small ball of metal in his left hand.

“Needle and thread, Mike.”, he ordered “The needle needs the same treatment as the scalpel.”

The corporal complied, washing his hands in the alcohol before doing so.

“You’re learning.”, John tried to smile.

Mike quickly nodded, evidently nervous.

“Bill, please, keep the tourniquet tight, the more the better, while I insert the thread.”

The man under the knife was slowly abandoning himself under John’s hands. He didn’t cry anymore, but nervously chuckled, like there was somethingfunny in what was happening. John knew it was the tension, but his friendsgave John a puzzled look.

“Why is he laughing?”, asked No-name.

“It’s a nervous breakdown. He’s starting to be out of his adrenaline rush. He’ll be fine.”

_Or so I hope_. Everything had gone well, but one could never know in there, in Ypres, under the light drizzle which had just started to fall down from the sky as John started to sew the two slivers of skin together.

 

_Front Line, Ypres, 6 th February 1915_

_I have performed my first operation on field today. I think I’ve just saved that man’s life. I feel more alive than I have felt in months. These are the days where I’m happy to have chosen medicine, where I am happy to be next to my men._

_The eyes of that soldier, the eyes of his friends, I will never forget them as they thanked me. Thirty minutes ago the stretcher-bearers arrived and  brought him to the CCS._

_Ypres is the only sector missing a proper Regimental Aid Post near the front line. Sadly, for obvious reasons._

_We are being moved from our frontline duty tonight. I won’t miss it, but I already know that we will come back. So goes our_ _life: a perpetual cycle travelling from the rear to the front. And back. From Life to Death. From Death to Life._

\------------*O*------------

 

Sherlock closed the book he was reading and moved his gaze back to the papers scattered on the desk in the furthest corner of the room. He was tired. He had been working on that translation for an entire month and he still wasn’t satisfied with it. It missed, in his opinion, the strength it should have. The words didn’t flow smoothly in English, but were still like rough diamonds needing to be chiselled. Sherlock hated himself for it.

Whichever translation he had done in his life had been a physical effort of considerable strength. It exhausted him to the point that his body ached at the mere thought of a word, it made him feel weak and, sometimes, it made him even sick.

The knock at the door woke him up from his daydream.

“Sherlock! Are you still in there?”

Sherlock pondered whether to answer or not, but Victor would have obviously noticed the light coming from the chink underneath the door. Lying was pointless. He cursed himself for not having adopted his usual precaution of putting the pillow against it, so that the room would look covered in darkness from the outside.

“Yes, Victor, I’m here.”, he huffed.

“Aren’t you coming to dinner?”, asked the mellifluous voice behind the closed door.

“I’m still working on the translation. I have no time for a _cena_ right now.”

“You finished that translation two days ago, Sherlock. And you need to eat. Don’t make me demolish the door to take you out from there!”

Sherlock, visibly irritated, stood up and opened the door with a loud bang.

The tall, lean figure of Victor seemed to fill the whole corridor, his blonde curls shone of a soft orange light thanks to the lamps hanging on the walls and his eyes immediately locked on his younger friend, scarcely impressed by Sherlock’s melodramatic ways of being.

“It was about time that you decided to open this _thura_.”, he snapped.

“Are you my mother, Victor?”, retorted Sherlock “All caring about me, if I eat or not, knowing everything?”

“Oh, Sherlock,  _où laikàsei phluaròn_?”

“ _Ouk eis òlethron_?”

“Don’t take advantage of Sophocles to swear…”

“You started it with Menander.”, Sherlock snorted.

“Just stop it and come to eat! You cannot spend your whole life sulking in your bedroom because you think that your translations are plain _merda_!”, Victor replied, frowning.

“But they are, Victor, they are!”, yelled the black curled man.

“Listen, Sherlock, you’re the only student since Oxford was founded to havebeen asked to publish his translations on the academic journal reserved forthe most renowned luminaries of the university! Think about it!”

Sherlock huffed, but admitted defeat, knowing that Victor had spoken the truth. Still, his translation pestered him to no end. He weakly smiled to Victor and followed him to the dining hall of the Balliol College.

Sherlock had met Victor Trevor when he had arrived at Oxford, four years before. Back then Sherlock was just a young boy out of Eton and, of all his acquaintances he was able to tolerate, he had been the only one selected to be part of the prestigious Balliol College.

He had thus found himself alone, with the sole company of his books. Then, one day, he had heard a student speaking and he had become totally fascinated by his way of talking and acting. The name of the student was Victor Trevor. Still,he had never approached him, until one day Sherlock’s Latin professor had asked him permission to publish one of his translations in the academic journal. When Victor read it, he came to Sherlock to congratulate him. They had been friends ever since.

Well, ‘friends’ wasn’t really the most suitable term. It was true they spent most of the time together, but it was a one sided friendship. Sherlock admired Victor very much and he even found his company more than worthy. They could discuss this or that Latin author to no end, and they could quote half of the library books by heart. Yet, Sherlock didn’t feel attached to him in any other way. He never talked with him about personal matters, they never shared anything else apart from the knowledge of the classics.

Victor cared about him, but Sherlock did not care about Victor as much as he would have liked to. Especially during the last year he had found himself more and more distant from him. There had not been a specific reason, yet he felt that way. Or maybe the reason was _that_. He tried to not think about it. It was a thing he did not want to think about.

He nibbled a slice of bread absent-mindedly.

“At least you could fake better, Sherlock.”, Victor grinned, but sighed “You’ve been sitting here for the last forty minutes and you have eaten three spoons of soup and almost a slice of bread.”

“You aren’t my mother, Victor.”, Sherlock remarked.

“No, I am not. But you know how I…care about you.”

“I’m not willing to embark myself upon that discussion anymore.”, Sherlock stated and stood up, leaving the dining hall.

_Why, why, and then why again has he always to go back to that damn thing?_

He entered his bedroom and locked himself in it. He picked up the pillow from the bed and pushed it against the chink underneath the door. _Good, no Victor from now on_. He sat at his desk, Virgil before his eyes. He read, softly whispering like a lullaby:

 

_Tityre, tu patulae recubans sub tegmine fagi_

_silvestrem tenui musam meditaris avena;_

_nos patriae fines et dulcia linquimus arva;_

_nos patriam fugimus: tu, Tityre, lentus in umbra_

_formosam resonare doces Amaryllida silvas._

 

Virgil. How could he venture to translate the greatest of the Latin poets? How could he even think that the English language was suitable for that arduous task? How could he destroy the beauty of that ‘ _dulcia linquimus arva_ _’_ , with its perfect assonance, without feeling a murder? How could he?

Yet he knew that there was no one like him, for he, they said, was the best English translator. He eventually plucked his courage up and looked at his inadequate attempt.

 

_Tityrus, thou in the shade of a spreading beech tree reclining_

_Meditatest, with slender pipe, the Muse of the woodlands._

_We our country’s bounds and pleasant pastures relinquish,_

_We our country fly; thou, Tityrus, stretched in the shadow,_

_Teachest the woods to resound with the name of the fair Amaryllis._

The fair Amaryllis.

All of a sudden, a veil of loneliness fell over him. He turned off the light and threw himself on his bed. Was there someone in that world that was feeling the same? Was there someone to whom he could talk without having to worry? Was there someone who could shut the constant noise in his head? No. He was certain that such a person existed. Not even Victor. The whole world was so cold for him.

He fell into a dreamless sleep.

 

\------------*O*------------

 

_Support Line, Ypres, 8 th February 1915_

_I feel lonely. I feel sad._

_There’s no one to talk to, I wish I had someone. For the first time in my life I wish I had more than a friend. I wish I had someone who could hug me and drive away this mad, mad world. Drive away all those_ _thoughts. But does such a person exist? Does someone exist who could fill the hole I feel inside right now? Does someone exist who could_ _erase the war from my heart in a single embrace?_

 

 

**_O.O.O.O.O.O.O_ **

**_Author's Notes. Beware!_ **

 

**A few more historical/linguistic/whatever notes. Really, bear with me, because this thing is pure madness. Don’t like, don’t read. For those who are reading, despite everything, you are reading it at your own risk, because, well, it is MADNESS.** **Enjoy the notes!**

**_‘pauvre, pauvre, mon pauvre garçon! Tu ne survivras pas! Si jeune, si jeune!’_ ** **: a bit of French.** **The old man is saying “poor, poor, my poor boy! You won’t survive! So young, so young!”.**

**_‘How are we supposed to communicate if we don’t understand each other?’_ ** **: this is just John being worried. Soldiers from different countries usually occupied different trenches, most of the communications passed through the High Command, but it could happen for them to meet anyway.**

**_‘the stench’:_ ** **yes, it smelled like that. Soldiers would eventually get used to that, but at first it was really hard to breathe. John makes no exception.**

**‘ _reserve line, support line, frontline (and similar trifles)’_ : or how the trench system worked. British defensive doctrine suggested a main trench system of three parallel lines, interconnected by communication trenches. The front trench was the first in the line, followed by (64-91 metres behind) the support trench. Between 90 and 275 metres further was located the third reserve trench. A typical British soldier’s year could be divided in: 15% frontline duty, 10% support line, 30% reserve line, 20% rest, 25% other. **

**_‘They didn’t resist the urge to peer over the parapet’_ ** **: historical fact. It happened quite often. I’m sorry for the two unnamed soldiers I killed off so easily.**

**_‘Alleymans’:_ ** **a linguistic calque from French “Allemands”, which means “Germans”. It was used in First World War to describe the German soldiers in a non-derogatory way.**

**_‘sentry duty’_ ** **: during night, soldiers were assigned different tasks.  Sleeping on sentry duty would have led to death by firing squad.**

**_‘3.7 metres deep’_ ** **: standard depth of British trenches.**

**_‘It’s fear that keeps us alive.’_ ** **: I really wish I could remember which statesman stated something similar. I’m rather sure I’ve read it somewhere and I cannot remember where. Forgive me. Nevertheless, it is a common belief in psychology.**

**_‘Rats, lice and latrine problems’_ ** **: all historically true. I’m still rather shocked by the rats scampering over people’s faces and them being as big as a domestic cat. Linguistic note: from the word “louse/lice” derives the word “lousy”. The word “lousy” was born in WWI trenches, isn’t it amazing how words are born?**

**_‘Boredom.’_ ** **: no, I’m not joking. Boredom was the worst enemy in a soldier’s life in the trenches. During the day they could barely move and most of the time was spent literally doing nothing, except from writing, reading or sleeping.**

**_‘Huns’_ ** **: very derogatory term for Germans, war slang..**

**_‘Rum’_ ** **: in some areas, soldiers were supplied with rum. I guess that in a dangerous area like Ypres, the rum supply was quite common to make the men there feel better.**

**_‘CCS’_ ** **: Casualty Clearing Station, they were basic hospitals rather near the trenches.**

**‘ _Regimental Aid Post’_ : they were the first aid posts in the trenches. The Ypres Salient almost missed them due to the danger. **

**And the Sherlock’s part!**

**‘ _cena’_ : it’s basically “dinner” in Latin. **

**‘ _thura_ ’: “door” in ancient Greek.**

**_‘où laikàsei phluaròn?’_ ** **: “would you stop talking nonsense?” or “would you stop saying bullshit?”, from Menander’s works, ancient Greek.**

**‘ _Ouk eis òlethron?’_ : “why don’t you fuck yourself?”, ancient Greek, again, from Sophocles this time. By the way, ancient Greeks were rather colourful in their insults.**

**‘ _merda_ ’: Latin for “shit”.**

**_‘Balliol College’_ ** **: one of the many Colleges of Oxford University. I know nothing about Oxford, but, considering the research I’ve made, it looks like this is the College which, in the past, accepted only the most academically brilliant students. That’s the reason why I put Sherlock in it. Also, it is one of the Colleges which has “Classics” among the courses. And I think we have all understood that Sherlock studies Classics by now.**

**_“Tityre…blah blah blah…Amaryllida silvas.”_ ** **: Virgil, 1 st Eclogue. I adore Virgil and I’m not even slightly sorry about this whole thing. The following English translation is kindly provided by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, but let’s pretend that was Sherlock’s.**

**_Two random notes_ ** **:**

  *          **Sherlock and Victor speaking dead languages is not absurd. I can assure you that a lot of people studying Classics do that daily.**
  *          **Sherlock’s frustration about his translations. It’s common. Seriously: never ever become a translator. It will take your life away since the translation will NEVER look like the original and you will even cry, scream and shout over it. And you will hate yourself for a LOT of time. That’s the life of a translator.**




	4. Solitudo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Solitudo, solitudinis_ : Latin for "desert".   
> From this word comes the word "solitude" in English and in many other languages. The meaning changed through the centuries from the concrete to the abstract, but I like the idea that, at first, the word meant something vaste and empty as - if you are going to read this chapter - our protagonists are.
> 
> I'm sorry if it took this much to publish this chapter, but December was madness (thank you, tutoring job...), then Christmas happened and I was away. Now I am back, trying to get back on tracks. Nevertheless, I thank you all for your patience and for enjoying this story.
> 
> A very special 'thank you' to my lovely beta JuJuBee who's still keeping up with my madness. And many special thanks indeed also to my friend Ida, who's still supporting me.

_Support Line, Ypres, 25 th February 1915_

_About one month has passed since we were put here, in this place, in this mess. Nothing much has changed for us, we only got used to the trench life. Not completely, obviously, but we fell in some kind of routine._

_You wake up, do the stand to, hear the enemy artillery fire in the distance, wait for them to not attack, then have your fucking chow, drink some rum – I have tried to avoid it, but February has completely destroyed my last defences, for it’s too cold to not take a sip to warm yourself -, clean the rifle equipment, wait for that stupid Roberts to check it. That’s the most ridiculous part of everything. That man can barely stand upright and he is the one who checks our rifles!_

_Me and other lieutenants have to re-check everything minutes later._

_Then we spend our day: reading, playing cards, writing. Waiting. This waiting is the most unnerving thing I’ve ever experienced. You stay here and hope, or pray, or plead for something to happen and not to happen at the same time. How is that even possible I cannot guess._

_My platoon, as all the others, is a bit under the weather. As the time passes, as the days grow longer, we expect the Germans to attack or ourselves to charge. It hasn’t happened yet. There have been two small skirmishes but not where we are. There have been several casualties, more for recklessness than for anything else. Apart from these small things, nothing really happens._

_I wish I could go back home, even if I don’t have one._

_Front Line, Ypres, 3 rd March 1915_

_I think we are some sort of losers. It probably depends on our fucking captain. I had promised to myself to not swear on this journal, but it’s fucking useless right now when you have a fucking incapable captain who can’t just fucking do his fucking job!_

_Yes, I am angry._

_We have been sent to the frontline again without a period in the reserve line or a period of rest, all thanks to our lovely captain Roberts. Why hasn’t he been hanged or delivered to the firing squad yet? Who the hell should we go to bed with to get him removed? I’m serious. I would do anything to get this incompetent shirt thrown out. We have tried to raise a formal protest, but he seems untouchable. And we are seriously fed up of his incompetence._

_Front Line, Ypres, 4 th March 1915_

_Nice. It looks like I’ve been punished. I’m on sanitary duty for the next week. And I’m also due to patrol no man’s land, repairing and adding barbed wire. I guess that I have pissed_ _off Roberts_ _._

_I’m so_ _very_ _angry that I’m not even scared of going out there. This whole thing could go to hell and I couldn’t care less._

_Front Line, Ypres, 6 th March 1915 _

_It rained so hard tonight that the trench turned into a small river of mud. There’s water everywhere. I have it soaking my uniform, filling my boots, my hair, my skin, dampening my bones. We had to drain the trenches this morning, but the pumping equipment that we have to use it’s rather old and almost useless. Therefore, we had to gather all the buckets we could find to, at least, manage to make the trench liveable again._

_Now it’s almost dusk and the sun that has shone throughout the whole day has dried the place enough for us to not feel like trapped fish. But the mud is impregnating every inch of my uniform and the lice have returned to attack my skin._

_Front Line, Ypres, 7 th March 1915_

_This is going to be hell._

_High Command has developed a new strategy and the brasses want us to try it tomorrow morning at dawn. Our duty is to carry out a trench raid._

_What is a trench raid? In simple words, as Roberts has tried to explain to us, we should just do a nice picnic into no man’s land. I’d be laughing were it not terrifyingly serious. The ‘great’ idea of the High Command is that we should go over the top, run across the field that separates us from the enemy, go in their trenches, take some prisoners and some documents and come back._

_In daylight. No, seriously, what? I don’t discuss orders, but if I had been asked what’s the best way to kill half of the British Army I would have answered--this._

_Besides, it’s our first real military action and most of the men here are scared. I can see it in their eyes, I can hear it in their whispers, I can feel it in the electricity in the air._

_Mike, wh_ _o is ten times better than me with these things, has been trying to cheer up the troops for the whole day. He’s such a nice person. He’s incredibly scared like everyone else but he keeps worrying about making the other laughs, not caring about his own well-being. He says that he has learned that from me, yet it doesn’t look like that to_ _me._

_I’m proud of Mike, of Bill, of Phil, of Stan, of Charlie, of Al and of Arthie. I’m proud of my whole section and I’m proud of the other two sections of my platoon. During this last month, they have been supportive and helpful, they have seldom complained, even when they should have. They are great men._

_And I hope, I swear, that we will all survive this, that tomorrow, after the raid, I will be able to smile at them and see their familiar faces smile back. Is it_ _that too much to ask? Why no one_ _is listening to me? There’s no god out there, I know. Yet, if there is, please, help me. Help us. And if someone has to die, be that person me, not my men. Not the funny Mike, not the smiling Bill, not the flirting Phil, not the clever Charlie, not the brave Stan, not the strong Al, not the small Arthie. Especially not the small Arthie. If someone has to die, be that me._

_Reserve Line, Ypres, 9 th March 1915_

_My platoon has lost two men. Our company has lost a total of thirteen men._

_It could have been worse, they say. We have been lucky, they say. Where’s the luck in that?_

_Danny, one of the two, had a family in Birmingham. He had a wife and two small children. We couldn’t even retrieve his body. He’s out there in the cold air, under the mocking sun, stripped of his guts by rats. He will never have a grave where his family could mourn him. They will receive a telegram, a scroll from the King himself, maybe the condolences from the Prime Minister too, but not their beloved._

_He had a family and he died on a fucking field near Ypres, 8 th March 1915._

_Requiescat In Pace, Daniel Wilson, proud father and brave_ _soldier. We will never forget you._

_Requiescat In Pace, Thomas Kingsley, too young to die. You won’t be forgotten either._

_Requiescant In Pace all those who have died yesterday for a bunch of six prisoners and useless letters._

_Thanks for nothing, HQ._

_I hope you are all safe and sound in your houses far away from here, drinking together and smiling. And I hope that you will choke on the food you’re eating. Men have died because of your foolish idea. Men are thinking about deserting, men are scared, men are dying. Where are you all?_

_Reserve Line, Ypres, 11 th March 1915_

_Am I the only one who’s questioning_ _himself? So it seems._

_We have been granted a five day leave to thank us for our ‘courageous fight against the enemy’. Ha._

_I am so alone._

 

_Béthune, France, 13 th March 1915_

_I’m on leave and I’ve travelled to the French town of Béthune. It has been deeply affected by the German attacks and, consequently, by the Ally’s counter-attack. It is still a very remarkable town with its gothic churches and its Flemish buildings, but it still saddens me to see its wounds. For the wounds are visible in the weave of the red buildings and in the face of the people._

_And I resume_

_My journey_

_Like_

_After the wreckage_

_A surviving_

_Old sea dog._

_I am so alone._

 

John took another sip of rum from his opaque glass. His friends had gone to ‘look for some company’ and he was brooding over his situation sitting at a table in a pub. At a first glance, the place didn’t seem affected by the war: the atmosphere was lively and the continuous chatting of its customers made it rather noisy. But, on second glance, one could see the reality through the false veil: the customers were all soldiers. French, British, Australian, Canadian, Indian soldiers. A mix of races and cultures that you would expect to see only in the colonies – or, otherwise, in London -, not in a small town on French soil. War had changed this too.

“There’s a new company of diggers arriving.”, said one at the table next to John’s.

“I’m certain that they will be the new brass’ frontschwein. They like them young and unprepared.”, gloomily grinned the other.

John took his tenth sip of rum and shrugged his shoulders. Even outside the trenches the only possible talk was about the trenches. _Why can’t they talk of something else?_ , he thought.   

Lost in his own world, he barely noticed the person who sat at his table.

“Bonjour!”, a melodious French voice said “Tous bien?”

“Oui, oui.”, answered John churlishly, before even realising that she was a woman.

“You speak French?”, she asked in her good, but French-accented, English.

“Some. I am not fluent.”, John answered.

“Digger, Tommy or Hussar?”, she smiled.

John thought that she smiled in a lovely way. She had white perfect teeth encircled by a crimson mouth. And she seemed…alive. Amid the dead faces of the soldiers around him, she seemed a spring blossom bringing colour to life. John smiled back.

“Tommy.”, he answered.

Ringlets of gold hair swirled as she let out a soft chuckle. Gold hair against rosy skin. Gold hair against living skin. Life.

“We don’t get many tommies here.”, she stated “They prefer the place down the street.”

“I find it lovely.”, John smiled brighter.

“I do too. It’s a good place. Where are you from, tommy?”, she asked, beaming.

“That’s a good question. That’s a really good question.”, grinned John, the rum in his veins making him feel dizzy at least “I am from Ypres.”

It was the truth. He wasn’t able anymore to think about another place he had lived in. His whole life had been shrunk into the town of Ypres, into the Salient he loathed, into a trench. God, he wanted to get out of it, if only for one night. He wanted to remember how the word ‘alive’ felt on his skin.

“I am from Ypres.”, he repeated “I was from London, I was from Sabathu, from Suez and Gibraltar. And now I am from Ypres.”

The girl chuckled, her hair dancing around her head.

“That was the funniest answer anyone has ever given to me. What’s your name? And don’t answer Ypres this time!”

“I’m John. And you?”

“I’m a German spy.”, she giggled.

“You’re too beautiful to be a German spy.”

“Je suis Annabelle.”, she smiled “Et tu es… _Sjon_. Et tu es très gentil.”

“Et tu es très belle.”, John added in his alcohol-driven French.

“Est-ce que tu veux un peu de compagnie ce soir?”, she asked.

“If it’s your company…”, John wolfishly smiled “…then yes.”

She simply smiled and handed him a piece of paper with an address scribbled on it.

“Eight o’clock.”, she added, before standing up and leaving the place.

John stayed still for some moments, thinking about it. He usually wasn’t the one looking for prostitutes, but now, in his troubled mind, she wasn’t a simple prostitute, she became his saviour, she became the last handhold on which to cling. She became the only Life he could see in Death.

At eight o’clock – and six other glasses of rum later, for he couldn’t be sober at that moment – he showed up at the address Annabelle had given to him.

It was a small red-brick house with white-curtained windows. It looked so innocent and pure.

Annabelle opened the door, her dress already half open, showing her breasts.

“John…”, she smiled.

John would have loved to be a gentleman, would have loved to show her that he wasn’t some kind of animal driven by pure instinct, would have loved to kiss her on the cheek and say he wasn’t going to do that. He didn’t. John Watson wanted to feel alive and she was Life. And he wanted to drink her life until he was completely smashed, until the images of the trenches disappeared, until his brain went numb.

He pinned her against the wall, hands travelling under her dress, soft skin under his callous fingers. He assaulted her breasts with his mouth, teeth around her nipples, biting, gaining groans and moans from her mouth. He tore off her dress, with strength, with lust, with whatever was harpooning his mind and telling him to do that, because that would save him.

He took her three times on the wall, on the floor, on the bed. Afterward, he fell asleep at her side, exhausted.

When he woke up, hours later – but they could have been days – , she was still softly sleeping, head turned to the window. John should have felt good, but he didn’t. He felt empty. He stood up and put his clothes back on, taking out the money for her from his uniform. He carefully slipped away, hollowness engulfing his heart.

As soon as he closed the door behind, he leaned on the wall, tears down his cheeks.

He felt empty.

 

\------------*O*------------

 

Sherlock leaned on the trunk, gazing at the first leaves on the branches above his head, flashes of blue sky amidst.

It was a sunny day of March, the first one after three days of uninterrupted rain and Sherlock had decided to spend it on the grass of the Balliol gardens. He didn’t usually go outside, but the atmosphere inside the College was rather suffocating that day and he found the weather outside somewhat enjoyable to be sitting around.

He glanced down at the book he was attempting to read. He would have enjoyed it, were it not for the fact that it was the book that Victor had given him as Christmas present when they had returned from the Christmas holidays. And it was the book that contained _that_. It was still there, concealed in the last page. _That_. The thing he didn’t want to see, the thing that had changed everything. Or, better, the thing that should have changed everything and had failed to. He sighed, trying to focus on the twentieth page of ‘ _Miscellanea Virgiliana: In Scriptis Maxime Eruditorum Virorum Varie Dispersa, in Unum Fasciculum Collecta’_. It was the book he had so longed to read and yet he wasn’t able to read it without his thoughts going back to _that_. He had tried to seal them, to shoo them away, to not actually think about it, but each page was a bittersweet reminder of _that_. He stubbornly kept on reading.

_It will pass_ , he thought, _it will eventually pass. Every memory disappears. I just need more time._

Nevertheless, despite his efforts, it didn’t. He closed the book and dropped his head back against the trunk one more time. A bud on the branch above his head was disclosing, showing the white petals of the flower beneath. Sherlock closed his eyes, inhaling the rain-scented air around. There was nothing he could do. He reopened the book and browsed all the pages quickly until he reached the last one. The creamy envelope with the red sealing wax welcomed him.

Sherlock could recognise Victor’s calligraphy among millions. He could recognise the perfectly curled letters, the graceful long ‘L’ and ‘K’ which irremediably marked his own name. _To Sherlock_ , _from Victor._ He caressed the yellowish parchment – an expensive 18 th century one, probably bought from some antique shop in London, Sherlock guessed it was Mallet – and closed his eyes, savouring the familiar scent. He adored the sweet aroma emanating from old parchment and, in spite of everything, he couldn’t hate the one coming from _that_. He was still referring to is as _that_ , he realised.

_I can’t even give a proper name to it. How am I supposed to read it another time? How am I supposed to even think about it?_

Two times. He had read it two times, before trying to forget it. Victor had brought the topic back up at least a dozen of times. Countless times, in Sherlock’s opinion. Too many. Why couldn’t he Victor understand that he didn’t want to talk about it?

_Not until I have made up my mind_.

And he hadn’t made up his mind yet. He would never make up his mind about it.

But, as Victor had remarked once, maybe he was just scared. Maybe he didn’t want to see it because he didn’t accept it. Maybe.

_Too_ _many possibilities_ _, not a single certainty. It cannot be. But what if I’m wrong?_

_You’re never wrong, Sherlock._

_What if?_

He started to read. Third time. Maybe it was finally the right one, the one time that would give him the answer he was desperately looking for. Before _that_ he had never asked himself that question. Before _that_ he had never needed an answer.

 

_Te spectante._

_Et oculos tuos._

_Et post tuos nigros crispos_

_Totum universum evanescit._

_Et me perturbas._

_Et tendo ad te,_

_Te volo._

Experimental modern poetry intertwined with Latin. _That_. And the question that lingered after that _Te volo_ , that ‘I want you’. _That_. That unmistakably clear question.

 

_Me vis?_

Do you want me?

_That_. And Sherlock didn’t know the answer. Or maybe he did and didn’t want to see it, as Victor had said. Or maybe there really wasn’t an answer. For Sherlock had tried to explain that he didn’t feel the same, for he didn’t feel the same. Or did he? He couldn’t understand. He liked Victor, admired him, had spent a wonderful time with him, but did he want him? He wanted someone. He knew that. Someone with whom he could share his experiences, someone to whom he could talk. But was Victor that someone? Was he, as Victor had said, just denying the evidence? Was he just hiding himself from the blatant truth because it ‘wasn’t legal’? It didn’t look like that to him, since he had no problem in accepting his brother’s homosexuality. But maybe it was different for him?

_That_.

And that, to Sherlock, was the only thing on Earth he wasn’t sure about. Or was he? It was so complicated. He sighed out loud.

Victor walked towards him in that exact moment, a smile on his face as he noticed what Sherlock was holding in his hands.

“Good reading?”, he teased, sitting beside Sherlock, shoulders touching.

“Rather interesting.”, Sherlock answered, eyes turned away.

“Have you got an answer?”

“No.”, Sherlock calmly said.

“Is it really that damn hard? It is a yes or a no question, not a philosophical debate!”, hissed Victor, trying to keep his voice low.

“Victor, you don’t understand…it’s not easy. I have told you a hundred times during the last two months. It’s not a yes or no for me. It’s…more.”

“More than what, Sherlock?”, raged Victor “More than what? Because, sincerely, I don’t understand. Are you still denying that you are attracted to me?”

“I am not denying, Victor, for the heaven’s sake!”, pleaded Sherlock “I don’t know! That’s all! I have already told you that I probably don’t feel the same, but I have doubts. I have asked you to be patient give me time, I needed more time. And still, I don’t know!”

“We will be perfect together, Sherlock…”

“Will we? I don’t know, Victor. I…like you, but not in that way.”

“Are you telling me that you have never thought about us in that way?”

And that was the point. That was the point where everything in Sherlock’s head became confused. Because, sometimes, in his loneliest days, he had thought about him and Victor in a different way. He had imagined it. But it was a fantasy, something that remained into his mind and something that didn’t give him happiness. It was just something that kept him alive. Was it enough to be considered in love with or attracted to Victor? Were those rare thoughts enough?

“I have.”, he eventually exhaled “But…”

Victor’s eyes glittered in the light of day. He was already sensing victory.

“Then try, Sherlock. Just try.”, he asked, putting his hands into Sherlock’s curls, softly stroking his head.

Sherlock stiffened, holding his breath.

_Without Victor I would be alone. Without Victor I would have no one. I should try._

“Yes.”, he let out, hesitantly.

Victor leaned forward, closing the distance between his and Sherlock’s face. Sherlock swallowed, still holding his breath.

“N-not here, Victor, someone could…”

“See us?”, replied Victor, mouth a hairbreadth away from Sherlock’s lips “There’s no one outside and those inside aren’t looking out.”

“B-but…”

And that was it. Sherlock felt Victor’s lips on his, a humid, damp touch against his skin, which, he understood in that exact moment, gave him nothing. He didn’t feel the electricity, he didn’t feel the sparkle of flame. He felt saliva, and cold, and the roughness of the small wrinkles on the lips’ skin. And the horror of the gesture took over him. He pushed Victor away. It wasn’t right. _That_. It wasn’t right, it had never been. He was trying to fool himself, he was desperately trying to prove himself wrong, prove to himself that he could actually feel something for the people around him, prove to himself that he was a human being with feelings, with normal feelings.

_That_.

That was the end of it. That was the confirmation he was an emotionless being. That was what he really didn’t want to know. If it wasn’t Victor, the only one person he had ever felt somehow attached to, who could?

_That_.

And that hurt deep inside. He couldn’t love. He wasn’t able to. He lacked of it.

And that was the answer he didn’t want to know.

He gave a horrified look at Victor, who, instead, was looking at him like he was the most beautiful thing on Earth. He needed to escape.

“S-sorry.”, he managed to utter, springing up on his feet.

And ran away. He literally fled, leaving Victor sitting on the grass, under the tree, leaving the book behind, the poem behind. Leaving his last sparkle of hope behind. William Sherlock Scott Holmes was unable to love and everything that had ever counted for him in those last four years laid on the grass of Balliol College garden. And he couldn’t turn back to take it, because there was no turning back. He ran to his room, confused, puzzled, destroyed.

He had felt nothing.

He crawled on the bed and buried his head into the pillow, tears dampening its white case.

He felt empty.

Sherlock Holmes was alone in the world. It shouldn’t have counted, he should have been superior to all that. He had already lived for twenty-two years without the urge to be with someone and, until the poem Victor had written to him, the thought of it had never bothered him much. It hadn’t mattered because he had felt good enough with himself and he didn’t need the others. He didn’t need any of them. Not all the girls his parents had made him meet, hoping for him to pick one and get married. Not his brother, who he despised. Not Molly, so hopelessly in love with him. And, now, not Victor, not in that way. Yet _that_ had changed all, had made him question himself. And the answer he had obtained was the one he didn’t want. Oh, he so wished Victor hadn’t written that letter at all!

_Time, Sherlock. You only need time. It will go away. It is just a memory, it will slowly fade away and, one day, it will disappear. It’s alright to be like you. It is perfectly alright._

He grabbed a piece of paper which was lying on the nightstand and picked up a pen. He carved the words he had in mind with strength, as he wanted to transfer his pain into the paper.

 

ALONE IS WHAT I HAVE. ALONE PROTECTS ME.

 

It didn’t change anything.

He still felt empty.

  

**_O.O.O.O.O.O.O_ **

**_Author's Notes._ ** **_Beware!_ **

**Notes, oh no more notes! (I know you hate me for this!)**

**‘ _chow_ ’: food, rations. Military slang.**

**‘ _go over the top’_ : in WWI military slang meant to leave the front trench and attack the enemy.**

**‘ _Requiescat In Pace’_ : Rest In Peace, its Latin version. The last of the three says ‘Requiescant’ because it’s the third person plural, it’s not a typo. **

**‘ _And I resume/My journey/Like/After the wreckage/A surviving/Old sea dog._ ’: here it comes the long explanation one. John becomes a poet, but not really. The poem isn’t by John Watson at all, obviously, but it’s by an Italian poet called Giuseppe Ungaretti. He took part in WWI as a soldier and his first poetical works are all based on his traumatic experience on the Karst Plateau, fighting against the Austrian troops. The Italian Army was incredibly badly equipped and suffered also from lack of coordination. Many soldiers died there and Ungaretti narrated his own experience in his poems. This is one of them, from the collection called ‘The Joy of Shipwrecks’. The translation into English is kindly provided by me, so if you would ever want to use it elsewhere, please ask.**

**‘ _Diggers’_ : Australian troops. I’m serious, they called themselves ‘diggers’.**

**‘ _Brass_ ’: high-ranking staff officers.**

**‘ _Frontschwein_ ’: literally “frontline pigs”, those ready to be slaughtered in the frontline.**

**‘ _Tommy_ ’: British soldier.**

**‘ _Hussar_ ’: Canadian soldier.**

**_The conversation in French: Annabelle:_ ** **“I am Annabelle…and you are Sjon. And you are very kind.” / _John:_ “And you are very beautiful.” / _Annabelle:_ “Do you want some company tonight?”**

**‘ _Sjon_ ’: it’s just Annabelle pronouncing John’s name in French, to flirt a bit.**

**‘ _Miscellanea Virgiliana_ …etc.’: it is a real book. **

**_Translation of the Latin poem:_ ** **first of all, it’s my own invention. I know I am crap at writing in Latin, so I had to keep it simple. Here what it says: “You are/Observing you/You are/And your eyes/You are/And behind your black curls/The whole universe vanishes/You are/And you trouble me/You are/And I tend towards you/Ceaselessly/You are/I want you/You are.”**

**Virgil, oh highest Virgil, forgive me for this bestiality!**

**_Last note on this chapter_ ** **: I know you hate me. I do know. I’m not even sorry for all this language pastiche. But don’t you love the parallelism between our two heroes?**

****


	5. Blighty One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say I am really really sorry for being so late in publishing the next chapter, but life has become a little bit overwhelming lately and time runs out faster than I think. Nevertheless, I'm terribly sorry. To each one of you who's reading this and is hoping for new chapters: I beg your pardon. 
> 
> Enjoy the new chapter and be patient for the next one. Patience is a virtue.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my lovely beta Marcy, who still hasn't killed me for being such a slacker in real life. You're a saint!

_Support Line, Ypres, 28 th March 1915_

_We are back in the middle of the chaos after almost two weeks of idleness. Five days of leave and thirteen days of reserve line have almost made me forget the foremost trenches looked like. Ha. Who am I trying to fool?_

_The reality is that none of us have forgotten how life  here was. Maybe we will never forget life_ _here. No, we will never forget. Not ever. Because_ _when you are not here, you see it before your eyes, you smell it in your nostrils, you sense it on your skin. Even after a bath you keep feeling the lice biting you and your skin itches even though those pests aren’t there anymore. And when you dream, you can’t see anything else except the darkness, the trench, the infinite maze of intertwined corridors that never ends. And you wake up in the middle of the night because you hear the artillery, even though there’s no artillery. And you wake up because you feel the rats walking all over you, yet there’s no rat. And you wake up because your friends are dying and you cannot help them, but your friends are not dying and you’re alone, lost in a nightmare._

_They say that the German bombs kill. They are completely wrong. Nothing has killed more people than this war’s spirit. Most of the soldiers may still be alive and walking on their own legs, but their eyes – and I think that mine are just the same – tell a different story. They have been emptied, as I have, of life. We are Death trying to be Life._

_As the time passes, I wish I could go back home, I wish I could forget. But I know it’s impossible. And that it’s the worst of it all, because the world, after this, will never look the same in my eyes. I can’t forget. We can’t forget. That’s our tragic destiny._

_Support Line, Ypres, 2 nd April 1915_

_There are rumours of an imminent German attack._

_I don’t know from where these rumours have started to spread, but I think it has to do with that squadron of pilots with their planes from RFC that arrived last week. If they send pilots with armaments, they are surely expecting for something to happen._

“Have you heard the news?”, asked Bill absent-mindedly, while chewing his ration of beef.

“About the imminent attack?”, replied Mike.

“Is there any news we aren’t aware of or is it the usual trite, useless information?”, huffed John, who was starting to be heavily annoyed by rumours which had no actual confirmation.

“Don’t know if it’s trite.”, answered Bill “But, to me, it’s new.”

“Ok, tell us, Bill.”, snorted John “But I swear if it is the same nonsense that was going on since we left for our five days leave, I’m going to assign you to sanitary duty.”

John didn’t mean to do that and didn’t even have the power to decide it alone, but Bill gulped nevertheless.

“I’m joking, Bill.”, he smiled “But seriously, it’s probably just a game of nerves. The Germans release information about a possible attack. We all go in panic mode and we start to worry and we lose our reason. And that’s exactly what they want. I guess this is all their hush-hush.”

“I agree.”, answered Mike and the others nodded.

“Nevertheless, what’s the information, Bill?”

“Chemicals.”, he said, gaze lost in the blue sky above.

“What?”, answered a chorus of voices.

“It’s just a rumour.”, continued Bill “And, as John said, these rumours might be untrue.”

“Well,”, John went on “I had heard about an attack perpetrated with chemical weapons on the Eastern Front, but it came to nothing.”

“I heard about it too. Where was it?”

“On Rawka river, near Warsaw, they say.”

“And it didn’t work?”, asked another soldier named Chris.

“Well, no. It didn’t.”, replied John.

“So we don’t have to worry about possible chemical attacks?”

John sighed and looked at his platoon.

“Guys, I don’t know. I’m unaware of everything, like you. I don’t know if Germans are going to attack, I don’t know when if they are, I don’t know if they will bomb us or throw chemicals at us. But whatever may comeand it will eventually come, maybe not this month, but it will – I know it’s worrying. They maybe have got it wrong the last time, but they will get it right the next. But don’t panic, ok? It’s what they want. If you panic, they have already won. Even without attacking.”

The platoon looked at John, disconsolate faces under the helmets. But John didn’t have words of comfort for them, since he didn’t have any for himself either. They had to wait. Whatever it would come, they had to wait. And the waiting killed them more than anything else.

 

_Support Line, Ypres, 10 th April 1915_

_As I imagined, the rumours about an imminent attack ceased to exist. We have gone back to our normal routine and nobody is thinking about it anymore. I guess we have to wait, as always._

_We have decided, me and Mike, to try and find the good things about being in a trench. I know it’s pointless, because there aren’t any real good things about staying in the mud, in the rain, or under the sun amid rats and stench the whole day, but we have tried._

_This is the result:_

  *          _Reading. I have read at least 10 books since we came here. Most of them were crap literature, but they kept me occupied._
  *          _Rum. That was Mike’s thing. I don’t think rum counts, but, well, we don’t have really much to be happy about._
  *          _The Company. The people are great, I cannot deny it. I just wish we didn’t need to be in the trenches to enjoy each other’s presence._



_Three things. Well, they are three things more than I thought._

_Front Line, Ypres, 21 st April 1915_

_Today there’s an eerie silence in the trenches. It’s a silence that bears things. It’s a silence that sends shivers down my spine. If you listen carefully you can even hear the sounds of the flower buds opening in the warm air of April. There’s too much silence. And the night is falling. I hope._

_Front Line, Ypres, 22 nd April 1915_

_More silence. From the ordinary_ _morning shots of artillery until now there has barely been any other relevant sound. It looks like the whole battlefield has turned into an endless silent expanse. The days are becoming longer and the heat is starting to trouble us. Last week there were still rather cold days, but today is impossibly hot._

_Actually, if I weren’t in this situation, I would say it’s a normal, warm day in  April, but try to wear a winter uniform with a helmet and such throughout the whole day and think the same when  evening arrives. Conclusion: it’s hot. Luckily, now that the sun its slowly finishing his journey_ _across the vault, a soft breeze has started to blow._

_Oh, God. Big Bertha has just shot and I hear other heavy artillery noises._

“What’s happening?”, yelled John at Al, who was looking through a trench periscope into no man’s land.

“I can’t tell, John.”, replied Al, “I think that there’s something going on in Ypres, but we are too distant to see it clearly!”

“Let me check!”

Al moved from the periscope and John gave a look into it, trying to see what was happening down in Ypres. But they were really too far away to see and all John had to base himself on were the noises that were coming from it.

“They are bombarding it!”, screamed John.

“What?”

“They are bombarding Ypres! Move back to the support line, now! If they are bombarding Ypres, they will bomb us with shells in no time! Fall back, fall back to the support trenches! Now!”

John’s platoon moved back, followed by the other platoon which was serving in the frontline duty. They all looked at each other. They were used to those false alarms, which always resulted into nothing, so they all simply leaned on the walls and waited for it to finish as soon as it had started. Yet John’s guts told him otherwise. And after four months of war, John, had learnt that his guts were seldom wrong. He exhaled and looked at his section.

No launches from the artillery on the trenches. For what seemed like an eternity, nothing happened. John looked at the sky above, expecting this or that bomb to fall on them, expecting the German planes to fly over them and drop their deadly load. Nothing happened.

Then Phil noticed something very unusual.

“John! Look there!”, he said, pointing at the plain below, where the French trenches were built.

A living wall of yellow-green fog, about one metre in height, moved towards the French line and spread out to a width of about 180 metres.

“What the hell is that?”, asked Bill and Mike, peering through the loopholes.

John stayed still and watched the green sea advancing. As the smoke grew higher, the whole area disappeared into it. Suddenly the rifle fire from the French increased.

“They are attacking!”, shouted John “They are attacking!”

Each man of the platoon looked at the man beside him.

“I think that this is it.”, said John to them “They are coming.”

There wasn’t a terrified expression on their faces, there was nothing. Only the extreme awareness that they needed to fight for their lives. Only Arthie, with his young age, was shaking uncontrollably. John looked at him with the most compassionate eyes. For the umpteenth time, John knew that the trenches wasn’t his place to be, and now he could not do anything to avoid what was about to come over them. He tried to smile, although not very persuasively.

“It will be all ok. We are all going to make it.”                                                                    

He tried to not think how weak he had sounded.

The French rifle fire gradually died down and John’s heart started to beat faster.

_Why the fire has stopped? What the hell is happening down there?_

Whatever it was, John knew they were extremely lucky to be far away from that green cloud. Gas. It was undoubtedly a cloud of poisonous gas. What else could it be?

_And what if it reaches us?_

Lost in his unanswered questions, John barely noticed that the noise of the rifle had  turnedten thousand times more terrifying. Shouts from the green fog. Shouts that seemed to come out from hell itself. Shouts that echoed through the hills, amplified in the trenches. Shouts of people who were dying. John knew. They weren’t the shouts of the injured asking to be rescued. They were the cries of those who recognised their fate, who could do nothing else except crying out loud their fear of dying, clinging onto their last sparkles of life. The cries slowly faded, becoming weaker and more incoherent.

Then figures appeared from the poisonous wall of green fog. The soldiers from the 87th French Territorial Division crawled out of it, trying to run away. John followed their movements from the distance. All he could see were black silhouettes of men who could barely keep themselves upright, soldiers falling on the ground. Some of them managed to climb to the trenches where John’s Division was, and, for John and the others, they saw the unimaginable happening before their eyes.

They weren’t wounded, but they had expressions of terror on their faces. They coughed, pointing at their throats, gasping for air, as though there wasn’t any oxygen around. Some of the men around John wanted to help them, but John was unmovable. ~~~~

“It’s a chemical attack!”, he shouted out loud, so that everyone could hear “I don’t know what gas they have used, I don’t know how poisonous it is, I don’t know if it’s safe to touch them or not! Don’t touch! Everyone, please!”

The soldiers nodded.

“Yes, sir!”

They didn’t notice the pang in John’s heart. They didn’t notice his eyes filled with driblets of tears as man after man from the French troops dropped down dead before them. They didn’t notice his clenching fists, his white knuckles. They didn’t notice how much he was struggling to not go over the top and risk his own life to save them. He resisted, fighting an exhausting battle against all the principles he knew that made him a good doctor. He resisted for his men, because they would have had no support if he died. The only one who noticed was Mike, who gave him a concerned look and asked in an inaudible whisper:

“Are you alright?”

John simply nodded.

Mike shook his head and patted John’s shoulder, understandingly. John took a deep breath and looked at the sky above. No communication from the HQ had arrived yet, nobody was telling them what to do, Roberts was nowhere to be seen and he seemed to have a whole company at his command. He took a second deep breath.

_Please, just please. Just please._

John prayed silently, pleaded, begged.

Then the noise began. The German field guns started up a bombardment of the French front lines which were already covered by the poisonous fog. From their higher position, John and his men looked down to see the German troops marching in dense formation towards the enemy line. The bombardment lasted for about ten minutes during which time John had to make a decision for the whole company.

“Fall back!”, he eventually let out “Fall back to the other trenches! We can’t stay motionless here!”

The company immediately answered his order and moved back. They met Waters’ company as soon as they retreated in the second support line. John was panting hard, struggling to catch his breath, streams of cold sweat on his forehead.

“Is your company alright, Watson?”, shouted Waters.

John nodded.

“That thing”, said Waters, pointing to the cloud “is coming towards us. If the breeze keeps blowing in this direction at this intensity it should reach us in a maximum of thirty minutes. Watson?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You are a doctor…any idea of what that might be?”

John looked at the cloud which was still spreading over the French trenches and remnants of which were starting to reach their position, making their eyes smart and their throats tingle. John coughed and tried to concentrate, but he seemed unable to remember anything important. Maybe in his studies he had already met it. Nevertheless, his brain was completely unwilling to cooperate. His thoughts were focused on his platoon, on the other platoons of his company, on the French troops he had seen dying before his eyes without being able to help.

“Sorry, captain, I haven’t got the slightest idea.”, he shook his head.

Waters answered with an understanding nod, telling John that he didn’t consider him responsible for anything. Yet John didn’t feel reassured at all. The gas was approaching. It could have lost his destructive power by the time it arrived on them, but the Germans wouldn’t hesitate to use it again.

“The French have definitely withdrawn from their frontline!”, shouted someone.

The information travelled at speed of light across the British trenches. 

Finally there was an overflow of news coming from different parts of the Salient.

“The Germans have taken Langermarck!”

“The Canadians are trying to prevent the Huns to go any further!”

“French gunners have been taken prisoners!”

Then a last one, the one that, probably, every British soldier was expecting.

“ALLEYMANS MOVING TO KITCHENER’S WOOD!”

That was where the British guns were placed. Slightly further from where John and his company were placed, but nearer. They were coming for them and they still lacked of orders about what they were supposed to do from the High Command. Eight p.m. arrived and, with it, the fall of dusk and, finally, the orders. They were from Bulfin himself. Three battalions of their division were sent to help the Canadian’s counter-attack. John’s battalion maintained its position. John sighed, half in relief, half in agony. He knew it was just a temporary solution and that the Germans would eventually reach them.

That night was spent waiting. And waiting. And waiting. And watching the burning on the plains below their position, and hearing the hail of projectiles pouring down on the Allies, and praying.

The one who made John’s heart ache was Arthie. He was sitting still, eyes glowing in the dark, evidently damp with tears. He was completely shaking, but trying to get a hold of himself. And he was murmuring a prayer.

 “…Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo…”

It was a perpetual prayer that went on and on, ceaselessly. Some other soldiers were doing the same, yet only Arthie’s one seemed to reach John’s ears. That young boy.

_He is not going to make it._

He strongly wished to be wrong. Somehow he knew he wasn’t.

For two days they stayed still in their position, Canadians and other British troops fighting in the fields below, trying to stop the German troops which advanced inexorably over the corpses of those who were killed in the fight. In the darkness, John found the strength to update his journal. He didn’t need more light to write, since the sky was never completely dark: flashes of light coming from the bombs and shell’s explosions lit up the obscurity around.

 

_Ypres, 24 th April 1915_

_This is it. Nothing more I can say. These could be my last words. Ypres is burning in my heart is sinking in my chest._

_Here we are_

_like leaves on_

_trees, in Autumn._

The Germans launched a second chemical attack that morning. This time the green cloud marched, pushed by the light wind, directly towards them. Each man of the battalion stayed still, knowing the moment of his death was coming in the form of a yellowish sour cloud. Yet John’s brain, despite the two sleepless nights and the emotional exhaustion, suddenly kicked in. The smell. It was chlorine. The chemical the Germans were using to kill the enemies was chlorine.

“Chlorine!”, he shouted, gaining puzzled looks from everyone around.

He almost wanted to cry for the joy of the discovery.

“The gas!”, he shouted louder “It’s chlorine! Damn it!”

“What?”, shouted Mike.

“Ok, chlorine!”, replied Waters from the other side of the trench they were in “Then what, Watson? What can we do?”

John desperately tried to remember the effects of chlorine and what could stop it from working.

_Don’t breathe it. Well, that’s impossible, John. You can think of something better. It’s chlorine. Why the hell you didn’t think about it last time? Because you were confused. I shouldn’t have been. I am a doctor. I should be calm. Nobody is calm when is thinking about his possible death, John. I should have been. Oh, stop it, John! Back on topic. Go fucking back on topic. They need you and you are losing yourself in useless conversations with yourself. It’s absurd, I know. Chlorine! Think about it! Fucking think! Chlorine is neutralized by… ammonia! God yes! Ammonia! Good, John, perfect! And where the hell can I find supplies of ammonia here? Think, John, for hell’s sake!_

The debate in his brain lasted only for ten seconds, but to him they looked like thousand hours of useless blabbering.

“Ammonia!”, he eventually shouted “Ammonia neutralizes the chlorine effect! You have to take your handkerchiefs and urinate on them!”

“What?”, chorused a bunch of soldiers.

“Piss on the handkerchiefs!”

“WHAT?”, they shouted louder.

“Oh, fucking…”, he huffed “Your piss is rich of ammonia. You want to survive?”

They all nodded.

“Then piss on those fucking handkerchiefs and put them on your mouth! It isn’t the best method ever but it will save your life!”

And, luckily for John, they all obeyed. The cloud arrived and, having lost strength during its travel, hit them less intensely than John had thought. Despite that and the precaution of the ammonia, they all felt the throat tickling and the clear sensation of asphyxiation given by the chlorine. They stayed still, sitting on the duckboards of the trench, tears in their eyes observing the cloud above them. John crossed his fingers, wishing for the urine to be enough to keep them safe for a sufficient time before the wind finally dispersed the chemical.

He met Waters’ eyes, which showed his complete approval.

They were lucky one more time. A stronger wind started to blow soon after, making the harsh chemical evaporate in the air. John wondered how much longer their luck would last.

It didn’t.

On the eighth of May the Germans moved field artillery and put three army corps opposite their division. _This is finally it_ , thought John while looking at the German troops positioning, ready to launch their attack. And launch they did, with all their strength. A hail of bombs and shells fell on the 83rd Brigade nearby, but the survivors managed to repel both the first and the second assault. From their position, John and his company waited for the German troops to walk over them as soon as they had annihilated the other two brigades nearby, which, bythe state of the things, was going to happen incredibly soon.

When mid-morning came, the Germans launched their third assault against the 80th Brigade and against John’s division. It all happened so quickly that he scarcely had the time to understand what was happening. One second before they were standing still, waiting for the worse; two seconds later they were in hell, with German troops over them, shooting in their numbers. People fell in the charge. They were running and, then, they just dropped down dead. Every rifle shot seemed to hit every man. They answered. Bravely they held their position, shooting back and trying to kill how many foes they could, but it wasn’t enough. The supremacy showed by the Germans in other situations became incredibly larger when confronted with it. They walked amid the shots like they were invincible. The projectiles seemed to dodge them and, for every British soldier John saw dying before his eyes, he could not see a single German hitting the ground.

“Back!”, shouted someone “We have to retreat! It’s an order! Retreat!”

The whole brigade began to move back, trying to escape the German fire. Then everything stopped for John, every noise ceased to exist. As he ran back, continuing to shoot, he saw Arthie standing still in the middle of the field. He wasn’t moving a muscle. He just stayed there, eyes fixed on an invisible point before his eyes.

“Arthie!”, John yelled.

Yet the scene seemed to happen out of time. John could see himself standing, rifle in his hands, helmet half covering his eyes. He could see himself from above, like he wasn’t there but was just _watching_ what was taking place before him. He saw a Hun in slow motion, rifle aimed to Arthie. He saw the projectile exiting the barrel. He saw it hitting a frozen Arthie. He saw Arthie falling down, his last gaze on John, a small tear at the corner of his eye.

“Arthie!”, shouted John, before even realising that he was dead.

He didn’t think about anything else, but Arthie. He stopped retreating and ran to Arthie’s body, inches away from the German troops advancing. He didn’t even think about the danger, about the fact that he was disobeying his own orders, about the consequences of that small gesture of compassion and pity.

Because of that, John didn’t feel at all the projectile that hit his right leg. He saw himself falling on his knees in the mud. Yet he didn’t feel it. For some blissful seconds he was totally unaware of the sound of the projectile trespassing his flesh, unaware of the blood which started to leak from the wound, unaware of the pain. Then everything returned to normal speed and hit him.

It came in the form of a scream from his own mouth that paralysed him, as piercing as it was. Clinging to his whole strength, he tried to stand up on his two legs, but managed only to fall down one more time. Then he sensed a hand over his shoulder and someone pulling him up.

“Got you, John. I got you!”, the face of Bill near his “You need to resist, John. I’ll keep you upright, but you need to move.”

John nodded and, biting the bullet to not feel the pain, he managed to reach the nearest trench. He collapsed in it, hitting the wall with his back. The blood was already covering half of the leg.

“A doctor!”, yelled Mike as soon as he saw John “We need a doctor!”

“I’m done, Mike…”, John panted “…there’s no need…for…a doctor…I…won’t…make…it.”

“Bullshit!”, cried Phil “You fucking will!”

Then everything turned black around John. Everything faded away.

 

\------------*O*------------

 

When John reopened his eyes, he couldn’t recognise where he was. His vision was tremendously blurry and his nostrils were attacked by the harsh smell of chloroform.

_What is happening? I don’t remember. If there’s chloroform, I must be in a hospital. Well, I am a doctor, I am obviously in a hospital. But why am I…lying down? Are doctors supposed to lie down? I’m missing something._

But what he missed, John couldn’t tell. He just felt his eyelids becoming heavier and heavier and he surrendered himself to the sleep.

A while later he woke up.

_Blood. I smell blood too. And why am I hearing cries?_

He tried to turn his head to see where he was, but it ached so much and he was so dizzy that he was forced to close his eyes once again. In that exact moment the memories of what had happened poured down onto him. It was a freezing cold cascade that he wasn’t able to stop: the Germans attacking, Arthie unable to move, him trying to go back to save him, the bullet in his leg, Bill. Bill had saved him. A voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Watson?”

John opened his eyes to see a tall, incredibly thin, mousy-face doctor leaning above him.

“Finally you are awake.”, the man smiled.

John moved his eyes, but he couldn’t feel any other limb of his body answering to his stimuli. He felt like having a functioning head implanted on a body made of stone.

“You’ve been sleeping and hallucinating from fever for five days. Glad you’re finally back.”

John tried to speak, yet his throat didn’t produce any audible sound. He just stayed there, opening and closing it like a fish, but nothing came out.

“You don’t have to tire yourself, lieutenant.”, the doctor admonished “Just try to get some more sleep. You’ll feel better if you did.”

John knew that, he was a doctor himself. Nevertheless, what he wanted now wasn’t sleep at all. He wanted answers. About his men, about his friends, about his state. He had been shot in his leg and, if he tried to feel it, he realised, he wasn’t able to feel anything. It should have hurt and yet it didn’t. And, as a doctor, he knew that it wasn’t a good sign at all. Despite his worries, sleepiness took over him once again.

It was broad daylight when he woke up for the third time. His vision was finally less blurry, but his body still was a piece of stone. Even moving fingers, which, actually, seemed the only part of his body that he was able to move, took a great deal of effort, like they were glued. He looked around him. Beside him there was a man with a blood-soaked bandage all over his left shoulder. He was softly whining: a monotonous lament that got on John’s nerves. On the other side there was another man who was missing his right leg. John inhaled sharply, panicking.

_My leg_.

He moved his trembling fingers towards his own leg, relieved when he felt soft flesh at the touch. It was still there. He lifted up his head to get the final confirmation. Two legs. Right. He was alive and with two legs. He still couldn’t feel his body, but at least he was intact.

_I have been fucking lucky._

Two doctors were walking across the room, moving from one patient to another, murmuring to each other, nodding or shaking their heads at this or that diagnosis they made. The mousy-face doctor arrived near him.

“Hello!”, he smiled in a rather unpleasant grin “How are you today?”

“Can’t feel my leg.”, John almost flinched at the rough sound of his own voice.

“Well,”, said the doctor “you have been tremendously lucky. The medical officer reached you only five minutes after your injury and we were able to bring you here in no time. The bullet hit rather hard and we did our best to avoid any possible complications. The lack of feeling may only be a phase in your recovery…”

“I am a doctor myself, doctor.”, John wearily grinned “I don’t want any lie. How bad is it? Truly speaking.”

The doctor gave John a bewildered look.

“Oh. A doctor?”

John nodded.

“Rather bad.”, he said “Not the worst, mind you. But I can’t tell you whether you will recover completely or not. You may and you may not.”

John nodded gravely.

“Thank you.”, he replied.

“Anyway, your injury has been considered a Blighty One.”, the doctor continued “We were waiting for you to wake up before deciding for the travel.”

John ogled at the man.

“You’re being sent back to England to recover fully. We don’t have enough space here for injuries like yours. And our country will grant you better attentions than this CCS.”

John had to process the information for a few seconds.

“Have I got a destination?”

The doctor looked down at the papers he was holding.

“Yes. A private hospital in Sussex. It’s the only one available right now.”

“When am I due to leave?”

“Five days, if nothing changes.”

John nodded and, when the doctor moved to another patient, closed his eyes and fell asleep one more time. He had one last thought, before embracing the more than welcomed oblivion.

_Back to England_. 

 

****

**_O.O.O.O.O.O.O_ **

**_Author's Notes. Beware!_ **

**Notes: yes, I know. Notes are a nightmare for me too.**      

**First of all:**

**The battle that is described in the chapter is the Second Battle of Ypres, which happened between 22 nd April and 25th May 1915. It marked the first mass use by Germany of poison gas on the Western Front. **

**Every historical information about the course of the battle is historically accurate. Completely invented by me are, instead: the participation of John (and all the other fictional characters) to it – even though the 84 th Brigade, of which our John is part, really took part in it - , the fact that almost everyone seems to survive and, mainly, the fact that John understands that the gas was chlorine. Obviously no John Watson understood it, but we have to thank a Canadian medical officer, who was also a chemist, for it. That man, with his intuition, saved a hundred of lives. And yes, the part about the urine over the handkerchief is a historical fact. If you want more information about it, look it up on the internet ;)**

**‘ _RFC_ ’: Royal Flying Corps. The name which designated RAF until 1918.**

**‘ _hush-hush_ ’: military slang for “secret operations”.**

**‘ _periscope, loophole’_ : trench devices that allowed soldiers to peer over the parapet without exposing themselves.**

**‘ _…Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo_ …’ : last part of the ** **Lord’s prayer in Latin. Arthur Conan Doyle came from an Irish catholic family, so I thought that my Arthie should be a catholic too and, in 1915, the Roman catholic rite was still in Latin.**

**‘ _Here we are/like leaves on/trees, in Autumn._ ’: Ungaretti one more time. Probably my favourite poem of his. It’s so powerful in such few words.**

**_As for Arthie’s death_ ** **: first of all: I’m sorry, but he was doomed to die since the beginning. The fact that he doesn’t move while the Germans are attacking is caused by shock. It happened rather frequently. I’m sorry Arthie, forgive me for taking your young life.**

**‘** **_Blighty One_ ** **’: a wound serious enough to be sent back to England, military slang.**


End file.
